Intrigue
by himawarixxsandz
Summary: Before there was Secrets...there was Intrigue. AU Prequel to Secrets. Second in series.
1. Teaser

Before you go to college, you go to high school.

Before you have sex, you fall in love—I think.

Before Fai met Kurogane, there was Ashura.

Before Yuui had Ashura, he was the biggest player _ever_.

Before Ashura freed Fai and Yuui, terror was an everyday thing.

Before Kurogane was head over heels for Fai, he was head over heels for Mioru.

Before Mioru lost Kurogane, he cheated on him as if he wanted to.

Before you find out a Secret…

You have to be Intrigued.


	2. Prologue

Hey.

Did you miss me?

Of course you did. Who wouldn't?

I certainly missed you—and you, and you and _you_.

As for our favorite letters of the alphabet, they're all doing fine, thank you. F and K-rin are as hot as ever, and they get their freak on every night—and hour—don't you worry.

M is getting along, and if you ask me, I think he and Madame A are steaming up the windows of the Glass…if you know what I mean.

Deary K and Captain F are getting along just as well as our other K and F.

Dr. K's packed nice and tight in the ground.

A and Y are—if possible—even hotter than K-chan and F and they're getting it on where most people really would rather not have anyone get anything on. Except for clothes. Clothes are good. Especially in public areas such as a children's park.

My two S's are doing absolutely fab, too. Last time I checked, they'd invited F and K-kun to the wonderful country of France.

How much do you want to bet that they made out for at least an hour at the Eiffel Tower?

Ahem, anyway.

But…have you ever wondered what our Holy Trinity was like before they were all so Holy? I mean, in college everyone is all put together and adult and hot and confident and sexy. But as I'm sure you all know, high school brings out the worst and the best in people.

Mostly just the worst.

Which is fine, 'cause uh, you know, it's more fun to watch Madame A and T catfight than watching them be all sister-y and shit.

Just like it's a hell of a lot more fun to watch K-chan and M scream at each other until they can't speak anymore and then collapse into bed with a few bottles of beer and a vibrator.

I could go on and on about these naughty little boys and girls' high school adventures—or misadventures.

Or, I could tell all of you about them. Firsthand, no shit.

I mean, you didn't think I started stalking them when they were in college, did you?

Babe, I've been watching these butterflies since they were caterpillars and I have two words for you:

Not. Pretty.

But so very hot.

I bet you're really intrigued now, aren't you?

--bWitch


	3. Bored

Chapter One: Bored

Mioru leaned back against the karate-hardened chest of Kurogane You-ou. It was Mioru's sophomore year, and even though he had it all, he really wanted more because he was just so, so, SO bored. He didn't even think it was possible for anyone human to be this bored, but he was and it was so unbearable it was almost painful. Honestly.

It wasn't like he had nothing to do…he could make-out with Kurogane, or sneak off into the locker rooms and have a quickie in the shower with Kurogane, or he could ring up someone from Tenbatsu for a screw if he felt like doing it with a girl—

Ahem, a short lesson: For those of you who don't know about our world, I'm giving a quick lecture and you'd better listen up well because I don't do repeats. Okay, so anyone worth talking about—they all go to a quartet of same-sex high schools: Two boys, two girls. All the really sporty boys go to Zenjin Maikeru, and all the musical, artistic, and that-kind-of-thing boys go to Fuki. As for the girls, the athletes go to Tenbatsu and the artist-y and all-other-else ones go to Kaiyou.

But Mioru really had had enough of the screwing and the drinking and the sexing and the partying and—well, not really. But he wanted something different, something new…he loved Kurogane and all…but really, wasn't there something else he could do? It wasn't as easy as it seemed to be him.

Yes, honey, your life is _so_ hard. I totally empathize.

Kurogane's hand snaked up his shirt and Mioru could only roll his eyes. Kurogane used to be surprising and everything and really bold, but now—like everything else—Kurogane was just really boring. The sex was still great and shit, but it wasn't unexpected anymore. After the past few months with Kurogane, the unexpected was just that much more expected.

"Do you have a match this weekend?" Mioru asked, sighing.

"No. You have a game?" Kurogane's fingers teased against Mioru's skin and Mioru had to admit that it made him get the slightest, most infinitesimal of boners. Just a little one.

Sweetheart, you've got nothing to be ashamed about.

"No. The tournament's a few months away, so we're all just…getting ready and training and crap…" It took all Mioru had to finish that sentence without sounding all choked up and stupidly breathless. Kurogane's hands had come down from beneath his shirt and had apparently decided to delve into his pants. In broad daylight in the courtyard. Okay, so maybe things weren't that boring.

Enjoy it while you can, M.

Kurogane's lips were at his ear and they whispered the two words and one contraction that made the crotch of Mioru's uniform pants immediately threaten to burst at the seams and Mioru instinctively wrapped his legs around Kurogane's waist, and the freshman hoisted him up and everyone was so used to it that no one even gawked as the two boys—one straddling the other—made their way to the nearest bathroom.

Be safe!

* * *

Yuui sighed. He looked at the text message from Kyle and closed his eyes briefly, attempting to will away the coming migraine. Why would Kyle be having a summer party when they hadn't even yet seen the snow melt? It was melting, yes, but just starting to. Did Kyle really already feel the need to throw yet another benefit?

He snapped his phone shut quickly as Ashura reached him from across the courtyard—it was lunch and they were still being let out for a few more minutes because of their next period teacher, who'd apparently let the iguana escape. "Hey," the senior said, smiling and making Yuui's heart thump so hard that it was almost painful.

"What's up?" Yuui smiled back compliantly.

"Is Fai out again today?"

"Yeah," Yuui said apologetically. "It's getting closer to spring, so his allergies are really bad—and his asthma is, too. Kyle's taking a look at him, so he should be fine and back tomorrow."

Uh, yeah, sure. Unless Dr. K needs to relieve some benefit-planning stress. And I thought it was Y who had the asthma? And since when did F have allergies? OMG. I think I'm getting whiplash.

"Oh," Ashura sat beside Yuui and the junior could smell the artist. Yuui willed himself to not get hard, to absolutely NOT get—shit.

Yeah. It happens. Don't worry, Y, just try to stay seated 'till it passes, okay? Good boy.

"Why were you checking your cell?"

Yuui took the phone out. "Oh…you know, Kyle just sent me a text. He said that he's throwing a summer benefit," he rolled his eyes, "even though the snow hasn't even melted yet. You should probably come—I bet Fai would want you to."

"I don't know. He's been really…I'm not sure if that's such a good idea," Ashura said, smiling hesitantly. "Fai hasn't been the happiest of people lately—to me, you, or anyone else, really. I'm trying to go over what I might've done to upset him…got anything?"

Yuui frowned. "You didn't do anything. Fai's just been—you know, allergies give people mood swings and crap. Like girls with PMS."

Excusez moi?

Ashura laughed. "I'm sure." The artist tousled Yuui's hair lightly and hitched his book bag higher up onto his shoulder. Yuui tried to fix his expression so that it looked somewhat normal and not…well…aroused. "I'll be seeing you around."

"Yeah." As soon as Ashura was out of sight, Yuui flipped his cell phone open feverishly and went straight to the top name on his speed dial list—the first of many, many, many names. "Hello? Touya? You got a minute?"

Yuui listened for a minute and then replied, "Meet me in the library on the sixth floor. No, not the one that Kyle donated, the other one—yeah, the one Kamui's dad gave. Okay. Yeah. And Touya?" Yuui looked down. "Run."

* * *

Fai stared at the high nonagon ceiling of the living room—one large enough to serve as a small chapel for regular people—otherwise known as his living hell. But then, saying that would be utterly unfair. The living room wasn't his prison. This entire house—mansion, estate, etc.—was.

Even though it was only early spring and the house was rather drafty, Fai wore nothing but a bathrobe, his hair damp on the collar of the towel material, and his white legs spread out on the lush, white leather ottoman. In one hand, he held an AP geometry book and in the other—eased onto the side table—was a glass of clear, amber wine.

Looking good, F.

But then again, when don't you ever?

Kyle strode into the room, dressed in his doctor's coat and holding two neatly dry-cleaned and pressed suits. "What are those?" Fai asked quietly as the doctor laid them on the curved sofa beside the junior.

"These," Kyle answered, gently pulling the glass of wine from the white hand to take a sip, before replacing it into the hand, "are the newly-designed Gucci twin set that someone—whose name I've forgotten—gave us as a gift for you and Yuui to wear tomorrow night for my benefit."

"You mean the summer thing? Even though it's not even summer yet?"

Kyle bent low next to Fai's ear and whispered, "Early bird catches the worm," and then pressed his lips against the column of Fai's paper pale throat. "And besides, if it were too hot, then your body would react, wouldn't it?"

Fai tensed, his legs instinctively telling him to run—although of course, running was out of the question. Escaping…freeing himself…it was as impossible as controlling his body not to excite at Kyle's touches. "I'm kidding, Fai," the doctor laughed lightly. "But really, your brother doesn't like the heat—oddly, for someone who once had awful asthma—and I really don't want him having another series of one-night stands. The last time I threw a summer party in the actual season, he lost his virginity." Kyle snorted. "Or whatever remained of it, seeing as he nearly impregnated some girl a year before."

"They used a condom," Fai put in softly.

Kyle waved his hand. "You need to use two forms of birth control at the least to assure that nothing scandalous will come out of it. He should have come to me. I would've recommended contraceptive foam."

Like you have to worry about things like that, Dr. K. Have any of you realized how lucky we are that F is a boy? I mean really, if he wasn't…my GOD, think about how K-chan and F would be increasing the world's overpopulation?

Fai didn't mention exactly why Yuui would never, ever in all of the time before the world ended—or the sun imploded—approach Kyle of all people on the matter of sex. Ever. Never, ever, ever.

You would know, wouldn't you, F?

Kyle smiled mockingly down at Fai. The doctor touched one of the open pages of the schoolbook. "That's adorable, Fai. It really is. Trying to catch up on your schoolwork, when most boys your age—in this position—would just be drinking it up with the alcohol and money? So endearing. Although, you're doing just fine on the sex." He whispered this last word into Fai's ear, causing the musician to shudder with self-disgust. "And the alcohol, I see."

Truth be told, Fai didn't get hangovers as easily as most people did, but he preferred to always drink his majority in the mornings and afternoons. It helped ease away the pain after…well…that…was done. Kyle kept a large stock anyway, in the wine cellar beneath the house. "I can't keep my place in the AP classes if I don't," Fai said in a voice hardly audible.

"And the point of that is?" Kyle rolled his eyes. "I could always donate another library. Or a gym. The young are so obese these days. A gym would probably be best."

"That isn't fair for the scholarship students," Fai said, forcefully.

Kyle shrugged. "If you don't have the money for this world, then what are you doing playing around in it?"

Fai could very well answer that—and debate about it for an hour or two—but he knew that Kyle loved getting Fai riled up and hot and bothered about one matter or another. Kyle always found a way to lead everything to sex. Everything. And so, Kyle wasn't only stealing away Fai's control. He was stealing away Fai's voice. Fai's opinions. Everything that made Fai who he was.

Kyle ruffled the wet, silky strands and inhaled against the cooled skin that the thick, plush collar of the bathrobe had slipped to reveal—right between Fai's shoulder and throat. "I have a few patients coming over. Be a good boy, all right, Fai?"

Without Fai answering, Fai knew that Kyle knew what the reply would have to be. It always was and from what Fai could see, it always would be.

"Yes."

So sorry, F. Just stick tight for a few months—I won't take long. We'll get you out of that house in no time.

* * *

Now, let's see how our little D is faring, huh?

Aw, look at that.

Doumeki was in a slight situation. The slightest of situations, really. He was just…slightly put out. Not that, you know, anyone could tell by the look on his face, because most people found it easier to tell what a rock was feeling rather than Shizuka Doumeki. Not to say that he was difficult to read or anything.

Right, rock boy.

But he wasn't that put out. He was just a little…down that Kimihiro Watanuki found it more fun to focus his attention all day on looking forward to when they were dismissed to invite Himawari Kunogi into his Town car and have his family's chauffeur drive them home together.

Yeah. Like you expected them to _walk_ or drive _themselves_.

What, are they children or acrobats?

He was sitting on a stone table in the courtyard beside his soccer captain, Mioru—who was, as usual, entwined with Kurogane You-ou, even though Doumeki was sure he'd just heard them having a little…fun…with each other a few minutes ago in the empty history classroom. "What's up your ass?" Mioru said, frowning. "Something go up the wrong hole?"

Sadly, Doumeki thought to himself how this wasn't possible, as he hadn't gotten any for about a month. He hadn't even been able to bring himself to jerk off, or anything—though, most young socialites simply called up a "friend", as jerking off was considered beneath them. Doumeki said, "No," and then proceeded to look through the names on his cell phone. He really didn't feel like doing it with anyone. As some people were finicky eaters, Doumeki had a finicky appetite when it came to sex. Extremely finicky.

He was lucky if he could get it up more than once every two months.

Unless of course, it concerned Watanuki.

Naughty, naughty, D.

But as Doumeki got down to the bottom of the names, he stopped and contemplated one of the last ones in the automated alphabetical order. He hadn't thought about this one for a long time. Now there was someone who—miraculously—he knew that his sexual craving would never be abated for. But really, this kid…who would?

Doumeki looked down and saw that his pants were already straining—just the slightest bit—at the crotch. He glanced at Mioru and saw that, for once, he and his boy toy, Kurogane, weren't too busy engaging in eating the other's face not to notice. Kurogane snorted. "Go get rid of it. It's annoying."

Doumeki didn't retaliate about how the martial artist had a boner every two seconds and; therefore, had sex with Mioru every two seconds, and even though Doumeki was friends with the both of them—if not civil, at the least—he really didn't appreciate it when his own captain couldn't practice with the team because he couldn't walk, on account of having been screwed into a bookshelf the night before (neither did he want to imagine that particular scenario).

"Fine," was all Doumeki said, as he pressed the button with the little green phone on his cell and watched the screen flicker and soon it read:

Calling Yuui Fluorite.

* * *

_A/N: Yeah, this is kind of how Gossip Girl the book series is written--ghost written, in official terms. I kind of like it, after trying it. It's fun. _

_And I had this chapter ready last night. It's just, right when I was about to log on to FF, my internet went dead, and I went ballistic--which wasn't very good, because 2 in the morning is never a good time to go ballistic. So I shutdown the laptop and then booted it back up, and then I tried to repair the connection, and then I went onto another laptop and STILL nothing, and after that, I just gave up and went to bed. I probably would've had the chapter read earlier if it weren't for the traffic--see, right after Christmas Day we went to New York City, and then coming back the traffic was horrendous. But still, being stuck in a car for five to eight hours with nothing to do but listen to my iPod and think usually gets the plot bunnies working, and they certainly have for Rule. Just one clue for that plot: Touya and Yukito. Bigtime. _

_No, it's still KuroFai, but that couple is going to be HUGE in this. And I've made Fai's past less tragic and less important, because really, back in that time where ppl died left right and center, nothing was really all that tragic._

_Review Button, in any case._


	4. Insufficient

Chapter Two: Insufficient

Maikeru—we just leave the Zenjin out—was smack dab beside Fuki, meaning that the boys from the two schools could easily interact (ahem) with one another by just walking a few paces through the halls and across the large courtyard each school possessed. Through the arch, and then you were abruptly in another school. Different uniforms and everything.

But, Maikeru's athletes and Fuki's artists really didn't have much in common—putting aside the money, looks, and talent—except for one small, itsy, bitsy, tiny thing.

Brilliant sex.

A Maikeru/Fuki boy couldn't just go striding into Tenbatsu/Kaiyou in broad daylight. That boy would have the shit crapped out of him and would be called a rapist/man-whore/boy-slut for the rest of his life. Even if he was straight, girls were plainly out of choice during school hours. And besides, even if he wasn't bi or gay, no one really cared during high school. It was all experimental, all fun and games, right?

Of course it is.

Yuui was just getting into it—of all of his "friends", Touya's tongue was the most…adept—when his cell phone rang somewhere in his discarded pants (which had been slung over a chair a few yards away). Touya stopped his…tongue-work, and Yuui stopped convulsing on the carpeted library floor. "Fuck," Yuui muttered.

Tell me about it, Y.

The moment Yuui's eyes caught the name on the screen, his boner only served to seize up and all the heat in his body rushed to that one, single, lone area. Touya stared. "Shit." And Yuui's eyes flickered to him, only to see that in reaction to Yuui's…inflation…Touya also had…enlarged. Yuui swore that the next time he saw Doumeki, he would beat the soccer player into a bloody pulp. Yuui was all for mind-blowing sex, but really, Touya was already ahem, tall as it was, and it had to go inside of Yuui. Really, Doumeki. Of all the times.

Not that Doumeki could help it that Yuui's mind and body had memorized the few times they'd met on occasion to release some pent-up…needs. Yuui had experience, and Doumeki was one of the best.

He just wasn't the one Yuui wanted.

Suck it up, Y.

Whoops. Didn't mean it like that…but you know…maybe T will give you bonus points if you do—all of it. But T's got his own Y to do that…just not know, I suppose. But we'll get to that later, all right, kids?

Yuui turned off his phone and tossed it at the ground, and glanced at Touya for all of half a second, before it was resume fire and the soccer player grabbed the pianist and started all over again. Yuui knew that this would have to end sometime…he just didn't know when. But he did know that like he himself, both Touya and Doumeki had their own reasons why they had boners as commonly often as he did. Sexual tension, frustration, anger…and nowhere to release it. Or rather, no _one_ to release it _with_.

Not that Doumeki and Touya—again, like Yuui—didn't already have certain candidates in mind…it was just that…well…

Touya's certain someone was also the same someone that his sister had nursed a rather heady crush on since elementary school and that his sister was also currently going out with that someone and if he were to ask that someone out it would not only be 1) having an affair—yeah, like those are so rare—with his sister's boyfriend, but it would also be 2) breaking his sister's fragile little heart.

Although, as far as Yuui was concerned—not that he was in any place to be giving his two cents—Touya's "fragile, little, baby sister" wouldn't be put down so easily as his sister was not only the leading gymnast of Tenbatsu, but had also somehow gotten through every meet, national, and championship without once getting into a catfight and fazed by all the bitching that Yuui knew so well went down at those events.

Come on. You know we're hot when we bitch—guys, let me tell you: this is hard to do; we have to keep our hair and nails intact when we rough it. Even someone who likes guys can appreciate that much, right?

As for Doumeki, his certain someone apparently didn't know that 1) Doumeki liked him, and 2) had a very obvious crush on a flutist over at Kaiyou and 3) hated Doumeki and thought that Doumeki's life goal was to irritate him to death.

But as soon as the orgasms were out and done with, Yuui was back on his feet even sooner than Touya was. After all, this was as brisk and professional as a business transaction. There'd be no lying with each other while limbs cooled and pulses slowed. There would definitely be no sweet snuggling or any other kind of crap like that. It was body to body and then it was done until the next time they met. At first, it'd been fun enough—meeting like this—that Yuui had thought he could forget about Ashura and indulge in sport like this, but after only a month, it'd gotten…too regular.

Yuui was fine with Touya's body, but honestly, the musician couldn't see why anyone would like the athlete's personality. Touya Kinomoto was stubborn, a bit loud, slightly arrogant, and had a tongue too sharp to put up with Yuui's own razor wit.

And of course, not to say that sex with Doumeki was any less great, even if the freshman never spoke, and when he did it was in monosyllables, had the facial expressions of a rock, could be overbearing quite easily, and really liked having staring contests that could last hours.

Y, babe, you have no right to complain. W and Y the Second have to put up with these Neanderthals every _day_.

Though, they do get well compensated for it.

Very well, if the amount of lubricant they go through is anything to go by.

However, today for some reason, all Yuui wanted to do was lie on the library floor, naked and still reveling in the aftermath of climax. He watched Touya stand up and slip on his uniform shirt and began to button it. "Any progress with Tsukishiro?"

Touya glared down at him. "No, not really. You?"

Yuui laughed bitterly. "Shut up. You know as well as I do that you have a better chance of getting yours, than I do getting mine."

"Fine, then." Touya hiked up his pants and looped his belt through. "I still don't get why you won't try and get Artist Boy to, you know, use you in Fai's place for a night or two. You guys look shit-alike and word is that your bro isn't giving Ou any lately—or at all."

"You people gossip like old women," Yuui sat up slowly, and rested his arm on his propped up knee.

"You're one to talk." Touya threaded his tie through his collar and set on tying it, while looking around for his discarded cell phone and book bag. "So who was the call from?"

"What call?"

"The one that rang while I was sucking your effing cock," Touya snorted as he bent down to gather Yuui's clothes and tossed them to the junior. "Hurry and get dressed."

"Why?" Yuui smiled challengingly. "Are you afraid someone's going to walk in on us? Someone like Tsukishiro?"

"Or Artist Boy?"

"I wouldn't care," Yuui shrugged. "It's not like he's interested in me—even if I look like Fai enough to be him, truth is, I'm not."

"Or maybe you just don't want to be a substitute? Nothing hurts more than having someone else's name called out during climax," Touya wagged his eyebrows as he slung the strap of his book bag over his shoulder.

"Would you settle for being a substitute?"

Touya grinned. "Don't need to. If I didn't actually care for _my_ sibling, I'd have Yukito in bed with me tonight."

Ooh. Burn.

And when Touya left the library, Yuui was left with that smile frozen on his face. The way the forward had said it…it made it sound as though Yuui wasn't doing everything he could to keep Fai…to keep his brother…give him…

Yuui pressed his face into his knees. But then again, Touya had a point. If Yuui really loved Fai…if he actually wanted to atone for everything he'd cost Fai and had caused Fai to sacrifice for him…then he would forget all about Ashura and just move on. He shouldn't even dream about getting Ashura to change his mind.

When Yuui looked up, his eyes were glistening with a film of salt water, but after one blink, the tears were gone and Yuui's face had pulled a leaf out of Doumeki's book. He should forget about Ashura.

But he just couldn't.

* * *

Touya dropped his book bag and soccer bag—Mioru wasn't able to practice due to certain…circumstances—onto the granite-topped island and looked around the vast kitchen. The vast, empty kitchen. Empty except for his little sister and her boyfriend, both of who were sitting at the swivel chairs on the other side of the island bar. Kissing.

It's a tough world, babe

"Oy!" Touya said loudly. Sakura looked up from sucking face with Yukito and got off the dancer's lap. Yukito reached over onto the counter to replace his glasses on, looking everywhere but Touya's face—even if everywhere meant Sakura's gymnast-suit-exposed thighs.

Sakura jumped expertly from atop the island and pounced on Touya. "Oh my God, you're home!"

"I kinda live here, you know?" Touya fought his sister off until she released her iron grip around his neck and dropped neatly to the floor, sticking her landing perfectly.

Sakura smiled and shrugged. "Yeah, but you never get back until after dinner. You're always at practice and stuff."

Touya cleared his throat loudly at the same time Sakura said "stuff". "Yeah, well. Mioru's been a bitch lately, and it's only because he's busy with some shit or another that we're off today."

"Hey, Touya," Yukito said quietly.

"How's it going?" Touya muttered in response.

Ooh. Awkwardness.

"Good. You?"

"I'm just peachy." Touya flashed a quick meaningless grin before grabbing his bag again and walking out into the hallway and then jogging up the stairs. "I'm going out, Sakura," he called over his shoulder. "Tell Dad, would you?"

As he reached his room, he heard the soft, nearly soundless, footsteps of his sister—gymnast's footsteps—come nearer to the bottom of the staircase. He could year Yukito following her, too. "I can't," she shouted back. "I'm going out, too. Where are you headed, anyway?"

"Kegger at Mioru's," he yelled. "You?"

"Same!"

"What the fuck?" Touya bellowed, coming out and leaning against the railing, his mind going blank. "What do you mean you're going to a kegger? You are NOT going to a kegger! You're effing fourteen!"

Touya frowned when he saw that Yukito was staring wide-eyed at him, and Sakura was wrinkling her nose. "At least I have my clothes on—fourteen or not, Touya."

"Shit." It took all of five minutes for him to run in naked and out clothed only to reassume the railing position and glare down at Yukito and Sakura, who were staring up at him calmly. "Okay. Thing is, sis, you are NOT—repeat: NOT—going to a kegger. You're a freshman. You're fourteen. You're my fucking sister!"

I think someone's got a bit of a sister complex. How 'bout you?

He sprinted down the stairs, skipping the last five steps and landing directly in front of Yukito—avoiding his gaze, all the while. Sakura had crossed her arm and was staring at Touya with a pout. "You're not Dad. And you went to keggers when you were my age."

"But I'm not my sister!" Touya objected, keeping his eyes focused stubbornly on Sakura's green ones and not on Yukito.

"That doesn't even make sense," Sakura laughed.

Touya could feel the heat behind his face rising in temperature—and some excess heat developing down south due to the fact that he was standing exceptionally close to Yukito, and the after effects of the tryst with Yuui hadn't quite vanished yet. He glanced at Sakura for the first time clearly and said, "And why do you have boobs?"

Yukito cleared his throat, and Sakura blinked. "Because I'm a girl. Am I not allowed to have boobs, either?"

"No! You're not! Wait till Dad hears this."

"Wait till he hears that I'm going to a kegger or that I have boobs?"

Touya roared in frustration. He wheeled around and stormed up the stairs, slamming the door of his bedroom and collapsing face first onto his king-sized, feather-mattress bed. It wasn't so much that he was irritated about how boys looked at his sister like they wanted to…you know…touch her…in that way…or that she looked pretty hot, if she weren't…well…his sister…it was more that Yukito chose his _sister_ over him. His baby-fucking sister.

They'd been childhood friends. They were best friends. And Yukito was fucking gay. Touya knew he was. Yukito wasn't even bi. Just gay. And yet, for some inexplicable reason, Yukito was with Sakura purely for the reason that he'd grown up with her as Touya had grown up with him, and the dancer didn't want to hurt her. So apparently, what Sakura wanted, she got.

God this was so fucked up.

Tell me about it, hon.

"Hey," a soft voice said from outside his door. "Hey. Can I come in?"

"You're already fucking my sister. Guess you're family, then, huh? Come right on ahead," Touya mumbled.

Yukito opened the door, his bespectacled eyes firmly on the plush carpet of Touya's room. "If you're really that mad, you know that Sakura and I haven't done anything. She wants to wait for…well…she says marriage. She really is a good girl, you don't have to worry about her going—"

"Oh my God," Touya said to the ceiling. "Oh my God. This is fucking unbelievable." He glanced, sighing, at Yukito's slightly stricken face. "Sit. Bed. Now."

Yukito sat.

Touya straightened and looked at him. "You think that I just shit a brick over the fact that Sakura has the potential to end up like every other fucked-up rich bitch we know? Like she might start hanging out with those two insane sisters…the little fashion prodigy and the cellist?"

"No," Yukito said quietly. "I know very well why you just shit a brick."

Touya leaned forward. "Then, why don't you _do_ something about it?"

"Why don't you?"

Touya swallowed and looked away, his teeth clenched together. Yukito inhaled deeply and ran a hand through the fine, corn silk hair. The forward shook his head and said in a whisper, "I can't."

"Yeah," Yukito murmured.

It'll be all right, boys. Soccer Star S is on his way soon. He'll sweep Princess S off her feet in no time. I know you can wait.

Real question is: Can your cocks?

* * *

Kurogane's tongue and mouth and that general oral area were currently occupied. Very, very occupied and extremely, immensely busy, actually. With what, one might ask? Well, at the moment, he was giving Mioru Aoi a blowjob in the boys' bathroom of the west wing of Maikeru. Mioru was sitting on the sink counter, his back up against the mirrors, hands gripping the edge of the countertop.

Kurogane didn't want to risk looking up from where his head was between Mioru's dangling legs—for if he did, and he saw the expression on Mioru's thrown back head…eyes dazed and mouth sighing…

Then he was pretty sure he'd have a hell of an erection himself, and considering the circumstances, he really didn't want that. He was pretty sure that if by chance he found a girl he liked someday and got married and wanted to have a kid, he wouldn't be able to because of how much he'd ejaculated during his goes with Mioru for the past months.

Mioru was hot, yeah, but Mioru wasn't that hot, and therefore, Kurogane really couldn't understand why they kept going at it every other hour or so. They made out every few minutes, which could explain why. But…whenever they got together to just…talk…or work out…it always ended up with…well…

Sex.

Not to say that sex with Mioru fucking Aoi wasn't brilliant—because it was—it was just that…why didn't it seem like he ever got enough of Mioru?

Kurogane could only account it to one thing: Love.

Uh, yeah. Try again, K-pii.

Mioru's hands ran through Kurogane's hair. "Stop…seriously…fuck…enough, already, Kurogane…Sto—God…stop…oh God…shitting me…arou—" The legs that framed Kurogane's head suddenly contracted and something heated and wet and slick went down Kurogane's throat.

Kurogane easily caught Mioru as the soccer genius of Maikeru slipped down from the counter like putty into his arms. "You're such a fucker…" Mioru breathed unsteadily, as Kurogane kissed him softly on the mouth.

"Ain't I?"

Indeed you are, Kuro-chan. Indeed you are.

Mioru pushed himself away from Kurogane and stood with trembling legs. He found his pants hanging somewhere off of one of the stalls and pulled them up. "God, I cancelled practice so we could fool around again…Dad's gonna be so pissed…and there's that kegger tonight, too…"

Kurogane rinsed his mouth out in the sink and straightened his clothes. "Oy, Aoi. Take a pill or two, right? Have you ever thought of…you know…maybe stopping with all this shit and just—"

"Just what?" Mioru snorted. "Come away with you to have crazy beach sex every daybreak and twilight? Yeah, right."

Kurogane merely looked at him. "I was—"

Mioru's phone rang beside the sink. "Yeah, hold up for a sec, would you, Kurogane? I've got to take this—God, it's Doumeki—what the hell does he want now?" Mioru flipped the cell open and began screaming into it.

Kurogane sighed, took his book bag and walked out of the bathroom. He didn't even know why he loved that kid. Really. It was either suicidal or just plain half-assed. Probably both. Sometimes…he wasn't sure if Mioru was even human.

"Crap!" Kurogane hit something delicate and something that smelled very…good with his shoulder. "Crap, that was…sorry, man." He pulled up the pale, slender hand that went with the very-good-smelling body. Very…hot body.

Kurogane didn't even have to turn his gaydar up. This guy…was so gay. And so fucking hot. He looked like those paintings of angels his mom kept from that Renass—something-shit time period: Big blue eyes, like pools of water, and whitish blond hair that floated without a fan…really pale skin…

Kurogane coughed. "Hey."

The angel blinked and raised an eyebrow and then his face eased into a brilliant smile. "Hello." Kurogane coughed again, for that was no ordinary hello. That was the sort of hello that guys/girls gave him and he always ended up in bed with them sometime afterward.

"I…haven't seen you 'round. You go to Maikeru?"

The angel laughed. "No. I was just heading back from the library." He winked swiftly. "I go to Fuki."

"What's your name?"

The angel grinned broadly and stretched up to place his lips against Kurogane's ear and whispered, "Don't think so, baby boy. Maybe next time."

And Kurogane could do nothing but appreciate the view as the angel's lithe hips went back and forth while he walked away…back through the halls of Maikeru and into Fuki.

They just got hotter every time.

I hear you, babe.

Maybe Kurogane should quit karate and take up…painting or crap. That way he could get into Fuki where all the hot gay guys were…he even heard that they did nude paintings in class. The closest Kurogane got to a naked hot gay was in the showers. And most of them were over-muscled, steroid type, anyway. And if they weren't, then they always insisted on topping in bed, and Kurogane did not ever play bottom. It fucking hurt too much. Fuki seemed better and better everyday.

You should totally go for it, K-seme. I mean, I bet you don't even remember how a certain M has the extreme hots for you? Or that, you know, Fuki already has one player. It really doesn't need another. But, you know me, whatever.

Besides, K-rin, if you're ever that desperate…

I'm always available.

* * *

_A/N: And no, that wasn't Fai, it was Yuui--if it wasn't obvious enough....which I hope it was, because Fai doesn't flirt like that. That's all Yuui. Anyhoo, it's nearly 3 in the morning, so Touya is probably OOC bigtime, but I don't read CCS, so I only see him in TRC. Same with Yukito. In any case, this is utterly random, but I am now obssessed with two British shows: Skins and Britannia High. British boys are very hot, aren't they? Especially Mitch Hewer.....he makes gay characters that much hotter.....and Matthew James Thomas......_

_But Mitch is still awesomer. As long as he has straight hair. And now I'm rambling. So, I'll just shut up now._

_Review Button. _


	5. Escape

Chapter Three: Escape

Kyle's "patients" were exactly what Fai expected them to be. It had become common really. After all, it was only sensible, if Fai was so good at being fucked around with, if Fai was really that breakable and bendable and vulnerable and so damn _easy_, then why not use him in another sense? There had to be other ways to profit from him, of course there had to be.

It would be so simple to invite men and women from society who needed a good…session or two and have them pay. The idea was simple. The money was simple—grand, but simple. Feeding Fai Viagra to keep his up for just about eight hours was simple. The entire scheme was simple. But so rewarding.

It usually took place in the bathroom—the enormous one near Kyle's study. It was the most convenient place for the clients. There was a bathtub the size of a small pool—deep as one, too—a large shower in the case that they preferred doing it soaking wet and slick with soap. And there was a sort of bed-like bench filled with pillows and cushions for those who fancied the traditional route. There was everything. Kyle thought of everything.

Fai hated it all. He hated it. But if he had to scale his hate, he'd say that it was the slightest bit lessened for the male clients—young or old. He didn't care. The point was, was that all of them were more or less domineering and wanted to play the top role—save for the rare ones who needed Fai to do that for them—which meant that it was easier for Fai to simply lie, sit, or stand there and close his eyes shut and do absolutely nothing.

It was the women that he hated most. Especially the old ones who wanted him to do everything. Didn't they see him? Didn't they ever imagine what it had to be like to be in his place? No, of course they didn't. They paid money for him. No, of course they'd never imagine what he was going through. Anything you pay for couldn't possibly have a mind—much less a heart—of its own.

But it was the Viagra. It was the only thing that kept him going. Just his body. Purely physical. Purely instinct—raw and needy. Nothing more. If the Kyle forgot even the slightest amount of the drug, Fai would be an impotent zombie. But of course, Kyle's reputation as a doctor wasn't derived from bribes—or at least, not purely from them. Kyle knew what he was doing. He knew how to feed Fai enough to have his clients satisfied, but he also knew when to stop and what to give Fai to have those drugs out of his bloodstream immediately.

The merchandise had to stay healthy—top condition. Of course it did.

It didn't need to be said that Yuui came home to nothing more than the pieces that were left of his brother on most days. There were some days where Kyle didn't invite clients in. It depended on the doctor's mood and if he thought the merchandise was up to scratch that day.

The bathroom was always a mess when all the clients were through. And most of them took their time—taking one's time wasn't the same as slow and careful; or just slow—which meant that it was usually well past nine when things were done with.

Yuui had dropped his book bag on his bed, but other than that, he was still in his uniform, still windswept from the outside breezes. The minute he walked through that white door and smelled the alcohol and saw Kyle going over the money and checks and pills…there was nothing else that mattered except for Fai.

He'd run up the stairs and skidded to a halt in the doorway of the bathroom. The fluids were everywhere on the floor—a bit on the furniture—there were a few used condoms…a few other packages…some spilled pills…towels…water…spilled shampoo and soaps and lotions…and of course, there was the battered creamy white body lying sprawled naked and motionless on the floor.

Yuui had brought a considerable stack of fluffy clean towels with him from their bathroom—deep to the side within the bedroom they shared. He picked his way through the messes and focused on not slipping—he was too used to the fluids to feel disgusted. Although, it disturbed him slightly that there were some little dark, crinkly hairs floating in some of them.

He knelt beside the body, uncaring for his now-wet uniform pants. Yuui said nothing, and simply proceeded to slip his hand beneath Fai's back and carefully bring the violinist into a sitting position. Fai's eyes were open and they took Yuui in. "My body hurts," he said quietly—tonelessly.

"I know." Yuui draped the largest, heaviest, thickest towel over Fai's shoulders and rubbed his twin's shoulders dry. He began drying Fai's limbs and then gently held the smallest towel up to Fai's face and hair. "How many?"

"Four of each." Fai blinked, but his eyelids didn't come back up when they were supposed to. "Four of each."

"How old?"

"Most of them were over thirty. There was one that was in his twenties."

Yuui said nothing after that. There were plenty of things he could say, such as suggesting that it was "only eight" or that at least they were horny young teenage maniacs and many, countless, endless consolations, but they were all meaningless and untrue. There was nothing that could be taken positively of this situation. Nothing at all.

Yuui couldn't even bring himself to apologize anymore. There wouldn't be any point. He'd ruined his brother enough—nothing could ever make up for that and nothing ever would. He'd tried to seduce Kyle—convince the doctor of switching twins…convincing Kyle that Yuui had more experience…more energy…anything to stop him from continuing on Fai—

But Kyle had refused pointblank.

It'd become routine now. Once Yuui had gotten Fai showered and into clean pajamas, there was nothing else to do but let Fai sleep it out and remain at his bedside in case of nightmares. Every while or so, Fai needed more than sleep—he needed to cry and sob and scream it out. Tantrums weren't rare either, but whenever the bout was over, Fai always made Yuui feel worse but coming to him and apologizing and then simply went to bed in silence.

Yuui preferred Fai's screaming than the silent suffering. So much more. The screaming was justified, whereas the silence was unbearable.

And when it was too silent and Fai just smiled a small smile, Yuui would usually start screaming and sobbing himself and Fai was the one who ended up comforting him. Fai. Comforting. Yuui.

Yuui thought that was just the most wrong thing ever. Fai should be hunting Yuui down with an ax. Why would Yuui even have a reason to cry? Ridiculous.

Tonight, Yuui had had dinner on his way back, and Fai had been fed, too. There was no need to go through that, as they sometimes did. They were in their bedroom with Fai sitting—waist-down already beneath the duvet—in his bed and Yuui sitting at the foot. "Ashura was worried about you today," Yuui said quietly. He still hadn't changed clothes.

Fai's eyes blinked slowly. "You still think I should tell him, don't you?"

But Yuui never did anything during these times that could set Fai off—that could upset Fai in any way. Fai had done enough. After those horrible…sessions, Yuui wanted nothing more for Fai to do than to relax. Sleep. Eat. Calm. Relax. "I don't know. Suppose so. Maybe."

Fai looked into his lap for a minute and then glanced up with a slight jolt. "Wait, isn't there a kegger tonight? At some Maikeru's house? How come you aren't there? You could probably still—"

"The hell?" Yuui forgot to keep his voice calm. It rose. High. Loud. "You think I'd be goddamn awful enough to leave my _twin brother_ after what he fucking does everyday for me to go to some stupid party to get high and drunk?"

Fai's face eased into a small, sad smile. "Thanks."

Yuui's throat constricted. He felt like he either was about to cry or puke. Or perhaps both and simultaneously, at that. "You shouldn't. I should. You should hate me and I should be doing all this for you anyway. And it still wouldn't be enough. Nothing ever would be. Not even if I fucking—"

"Hey," Fai said hesitantly—brotherly, there was no other term for it. "I chose to, okay. Things just happen. You got the disease and I got…well…this. It's an equal load—twins split the load that most people get alone, right?"

Yuui looked at him in disbelief. "If twins split the load then we're way out of balance—you're tipping the scale fucking over to the ground, and I'm just up there in the sky with the fucking birds."

Fai laughed softly. "Maybe. But we're in high school now. We'll be graduating next year. Shouldn't I be used to something as trivial to kids like us as sex is?"

Yuui stared at him. Yuui couldn't fucking believe this. He couldn't believe this at all. Was that really, truly what his brother thought and knew? That what Kyle did to him—what those people did to him—was sex? Rape didn't count as sex…not in Yuui's eyes. Rape was a crime. A contortioned, twisted, hideous version of what sex was and could be. "What?"

Fai gazed at him sleepily. "What?"

"That isn't sex," Yuui said dully. "You've never had sex in your life. You've been raped. There's a difference. Huge one."

Fai wrapped his arms around himself, his eyes painfully staring at his lap. "And what's that?"

"Our instruments," Yuui began quietly.

"What about them?"

Yuui continued, "A violin…yours…a piano…mine…anyone can play a piano or violin. All you do is push and pull a stick back and forth on strings and push keys down. Anyone can do that. But it doesn't mean that it's the same—it doesn't mean it's all the same. It's different—anyone can use a violin or piano. But that doesn't mean they can play them.

"That's what sex is, Fai. It's an act. Just like pushing and pulling a bow back and forth on strings or pushing wooden blocks—keys—down. It's up to the person—or people—doing that act to make it what it could be and what it is. Kyle chose to make sex a weapon—a terror." Yuui looked at his brother. "Someone like Ashura—even all those guys and girls I've done it with—can make it something a hell of a lot better. Sex can be romantic; it can be hot; it can be passionate and daring. I've seen funny sex, entertaining sex, elaborate sex, sweet sex. It can be anything. But making it a weapon…a crime…that's the lowest thing anyone can use it for.

Fai's eyes were wide as they took Yuui in. Yuui swallowed, knowing—but still hoping—that Fai was just surprised. He wasn't…angry…? Yuui knew his twin, but in this situation…any sort of crap could go down. But Fai's lips and eyes smiled slowly. "See?" he said quietly to Yuui. "Why would I hate a brother like you? I'd do this all over again and more if I had to."

"You don't mean that," Yuui whispered—half-begged.

"I do," Fai pulled his mouth into another smile. He yawned, and Yuui knew it was time for him to bow out of this and let his brother get the sleep that he more than deserved.

"Get some sleep. I don't want Ashura worrying tomorrow when you show up." Yuui shoved Fai's head, hesitantly grinning, and Fai laughed as he collapsed into the pillows. "'Night."

"You haven't even changed," Fai accused, his voice already sounding half-unconscious. His eyes were closed in seconds.

"I'll get to it," Yuui said, walking over to the walk-in closet. But Fai was already asleep. Yuui leaned down to see his brother's face—his twin's identical, weary, tired, and so young face. For those few moments, it felt like they'd escaped. Like Kyle didn't even exist…like nothing else really mattered…like they were just ordinary brothers.

But this was one of the good nights. There were nights that weren't so good. Nights that Yuui would rather forget and erase completely from his mind, but refused to budge. Yuui touched Fai's shoulder and gave a small smile to the closed, pale lids. "You really should stop being nice to me, you know? You never even used to bully me. You should start being mean, got it?" Yuui's smile faded slightly. "You should…otherwise, I'll start hating myself."

But the reality was…no matter how long and how blissful the temporary escape was…they were still trapped and there was no getting out of it.

It's a tough life, isn't it, Y?

* * *

_A/N: Yep. So it's a serious one for a change. And plus it's the introduction of the plotline...which I hope at least one person noticed since I know it'd be too good if everyone did...I didn't even realize myself that the plot had appeared until putting it onto my Document Manager thingy. Anyway, I hope everyone's had a Happy Holidays and a very Happy New Year. I was at one of my best friends' house for a sleepover on New Year's Eve and New Year's and we stayed up till....hmm...three-thirty-ish in the morning talking to guyfriends over the phone. _

_Sadly, I'm going back to school on Monday. And I have a magazine article report and a lit character project due. I'm devastated. But, this is my first post of 2009. May there be many more in hopes that I don't...i dunno...die or anything. _

_Reviews (the first of '09, yaaaaaaay........)!_

_(Oh, and in regards to the chapter, I felt like crying when I wrote the part with Yuui and Fai)_


	6. Elite

Chapter Four: Elite

**Dr. Kyle Rondart's Summer Benefit**

**By Yuuko Ichihara**

This coming Saturday, families in the area will be spending their evening—and well into the night—stargazing on simple blankets in their backyards, taking in the cool air and outdoor food, perhaps even sighting a firework show or two. The weather has been forecasted as clear skies, and fairly warm weather relative to this season.

This coming Saturday is also when Dr. Kyle Rondart—the owner of a small private clinic—is hosting his Summer Benefit at his forest estate. One—and many—might and have speculated the timing of his benefit and the location as "halfway planning" and "carelessness". But I myself have been asked those same questions in regard to my opinion, and personally, I couldn't disagree more.

Dr. Kyle Rondart's causes are admirable and he himself has done great charity work—one of his greatest achievements in the philanthropic field is his memorable adoption of the Fluorite twins (Fai and Yuui; age: 16).

And as such, this benefit is exclusive—invitation only—and since I will be attending, further news on this will be covered in my next column of Elite. Furthermore, there is a need to be addressed soon, and that is the son of banker Naoto Aoi and his wife, socialite Kari Aoi. The well-respected couple has expressed that their son, Mioru—who attends Zenjin Maikeru's Academy for ambitious young men pursuing the area of athletics—will be turning sixteen in no more than a month, and that they will be introducing him more fully into society.

Young Mioru has been seen out and about the town with his close, personal friend, Kurogane You-ou (age: 15), who is the son of Chief Keiji You-ou and his socialite wife, Li You-ou. Kurogane also attends Zenjin Maikeru, and whereas young Mr. Aoi is captain of the academy's soccer team, Kurogane is one of the top martial artist's in the nation. He has been scouted numerable times and has his name registered for seven scholarships across the country.

Mioru and Kurogane will not be participating in the end-of-the-year showcase for Tenbatsu Academy for Athletic Young Women, Kaiyou Institute of the Arts for Young Ladies, Fuki Institution of the Arts for Young Gentlemen, and Zenjin Maikeru Academy for Athletic Young Men.

This showcase takes place every end-of-the-school year at one of the four brother/sister high schools. I have heard that this year's showcase will be hosted at Fuki Institution. A few of the graduates' senior projects that will be most looked forward to are Ashura Ou of Fuki, Amaterasu Daidoji of Kaiyou, and many, many more talented young men and women.

I look forward to a wonderful year filled with events and benefits to help those less fortunate than us in this community and more philanthropic stepping-stones. Just as last year, the four high schools received generous donations of five libraries, a brand new dining hall, and three refurbished students' lounges, I know that all of you, too, hope for more gifts to the great needs of our children.

I hope to see you at Dr. Kyle's Summer Benefit, and wish you well.

* * *

_A/N: Just in case I didn't make it clear enough, this is like a clipping of say Yuuko's article from a newspaper called Elite. It's like the local newspaper for the socialites and stuff, y'know? 'Cause in Secrets we got to see the fun part of her on the internet and stuff, and this is what she does in real life....well not real life, more like legitimate life. Sorry I haven't been updating to my usual pace, but school's been busy--or busier--and the teachers aren't going easy on the new year. But I think I'll have the next chapter of Rule up tonight, if not tomorrow night. Although, I wouldn't get my hopes up too far, because I've been known to stall for another week or so whenever I say things like this. _

_Review Button. (You can detect Yuuko's infamous mocking sarcasm if you squint close enough)_


	7. Fun

Chapter Five: Fun

"Mioru…"

"Mioru…?"

"Mioru?"

"Mioru."

"Mioru!"

Mioru's head snapped up and the golden specks of his eyes sharpened alertly to the sound of his mother's voice. "Yes, mother?" He blinked a few times, attempting to get the drowsiness out of his eyes and look as wide-awake as possible as it was for someone who'd hosted a kegger just the other night.

Kari Aoi frowned at her son. As a socialite, Mioru's mother was the ruling heiress in the county's society, and the leading benefactress…or at least that was how the matter was considered in the Aoi household. Mioru knew all too well from his mother's tirades that the true lead benefactress was none other than Li You-ou. Kurogane's mother—an heiress from a neighboring country and also a socialite.

Mioru also happened to know through a little digging around on his own—and perhaps a private detective hired here and there on an hourly fee of the four-thousands—that his mother had originally vied for Chief You-ou's affections…only to realize too late on that he was already far gone and smitten with Li.

Not that, y'know, it was any of his own business what his parents had done and how they'd gone cavorting about. Really. It wasn't.

Just like you can't possibly be interested if your mommy used to screw around with your boyfriend's old man. We believe you, M—sure we do.

"Were you listening?" Kari raised a neatly plucked eyebrow.

"Of course."

"Excellent," she continued without another note of doubt. "Now, as of the moment, I'm still caught heavily between having your birthday celebrated in the two days before it—sort of like a stretched out series of events—and going to the actual date, or having an all day sort of thing. I've already spoken with my people at Material, and they said they're fine either way."

Material was one of the exclusively, high standing socialite clubs in the district. It was a ways out of the town, but in the case that Mioru's mother went with the three-day route, there were conveniently a number of just as exclusive and high standing socialite hotels around the block.

Mioru entertained a rather curious fantasy of having an enormous penthouse suite all to himself and Kurogane for the weekend to keep his mind occupied while his mother continued to ramble on. If he heard vaguely right, she was speaking about how impressed she was with Material's flexibility, whereas Mioru really wasn't surprised—he'd be surprised if they hadn't allowed his mother to do whatever she cared for. She was _Kari Aoi_, for fuck's sake.

"Mother," he said suddenly, interrupting her. She raised another eyebrow into yet another perfectly plucked arch. "If it's all right, I think I'd prefer the two/three-day thing. We could reserve a few floors of Silver. It's near Material, right? Dinner the hotel wouldn't be too bad, either. I heard that another chain of Butter just got opened in there."

Kari clapped her hands together briskly—hard enough so that her series of Tiffany rings slammed together audibly, and her Cartier watch jingled. "That sounds terrific. Wonderful idea, Mioru. I'll call them tonight. Did you want me to make the guest list…or…?"

"No," Mioru said, simpering, "I think I'll make it. You've already done so much—and it's _my_ birthday, after all. I should do some work, right?"

Kari bussed his forehead and then took out her slim Blackberry. "You're such a darling. All right, then. I'll finish up the reservations and meetings—oh, God, I have a manicure in half an hour—I won't be here for dinner, sorry, honey…your father'll be late as well. We'll see you tomorrow for…no…we'll see you…in…a week, for lunch, all right?"

Mioru simply smiled mechanically. "Of course. See you."

"Good-bye, darling, be good, okay?"

"Yeah."

Mioru watched his mother strut up the stairs and down with her bags. She waved to him one more time before calling her chauffeur and striding out into the courtyard. Mioru knew she and his father wouldn't make it in time for Dr. Rondart's summer benefit-thingy. He sighed. He'd have to go again and make the excuses. Then again, it was nothing new.

He leaned against the cold marble table of the kitchen and whipped out his cell phone. His fingers slid over the touch screen and he put it to his ear. "Yo. Hm? No. She's gone. Again." His expression softened, and a small smile appeared on his face. "Yeah. Thanks."

Mioru threw the iPhone on the countertop and he stared up at the too-white and silver ceiling. He closed his eyes. It wasn't like he even liked his parents. He didn't even really know them. It was much better when they left, and left him alone. He could be with the person who _really_ knew him…really loved him…

He could be with Kurogane.

Yeah, M, for now you can.

* * *

Touya blinked at his ceiling. His head felt like there were iron clampers on either sides, attempting to squeeze his brain and blood vessels out until he was a mindless shell. It must've been that little shit Aoi's kegger. He couldn't believe he'd actually let his sister _go_ to that thing. Moreover, he couldn't believe what Sakura had worn. No, in fact, he'd rather not believe, not think, and not remember what she'd worn.

He rubbed his eyes and turned his head away from the sunlight leaking through his gauze curtains—it was a miracle he'd even made it home—and looked straight at the sleeping profile of Yukito Tsukishiro.

Touya blinked and rubbed his eyes again. And again. And again. And just like a stubborn itch that refused to go away, Yukito didn't disappear. He was just there. Sakura's effing boyfriend was still there…naked, underneath the sheets, looking perfectly flushed and angelic and more importantly…naked.

Had he mentioned naked?

Uh, yeah. Yeah, you kind of did, sweetie. I understand though. It's hard to think of how you might've just done your baby sister's boyfriend in an inebriated state the night before, and didn't at all remember doing so, when Y II is in his birthday suit in your bed.

Touya had just managed to sit up and was deciding which set of profanities he should put together for this particular situation when Yukito's golden eyes opened foggily. He stared at Touya for about a minute and a half—as told by the grandfather clock near the window—and Touya stared back. It took exactly that much time for Yukito to sit up and bury his head in his hands. "Shit."

"Took the words right out of my mouth," Touya said dryly.

Yukito ran a hand over his face, and licked his lips, wincing slightly. "That's not all I took out of you, apparently. D'you have any water or something?"

"We can't." Touya gestured to the clock. "Sakura doesn't go out on Saturdays until at least two. I have to wait an hour until I go downstairs for her and my dad to get gone. I'll see what I have in my bathroom."

"I don't even remember what happened," Yukito mumbled into a hand. "D'you?"

"It's…coming back," Touya stood up and tried not to have any eye contact with Yukito's face…or any other part of him. Especially not any other part of him. "Wait an hour. You'll remember soon."

There was no response. Touya closed his eyes and sighed, rummaging around in the drawer of his desk and retrieving an unopened water bottle. He tossed it around in his hand, still facing the wall. "And what happens when I do?" Yukito's voice came huskily after a pause.

Touya turned, walking back to the bed and balancing the bottle carefully on Yukito's blanketed knee. The striker himself was still naked, too, his body casually out and exposed. "I don't know. I don't even know what I'll do."

"You remember?"

They stared at each other. "Clear as day," Touya whispered.

_"How many fucking drinks has she fucking had?" Touya said, tossing his sister onto her bed. "She nearly scared our effing driver to his grave. My dad would've killed me. We've had him for years."_

_Yukito took another swig from his water bottle—filled with beer—and laughed. "She's just an interesting drunk, is all. And y'didn't have to carry her. I could've done that, y'know."_

_Touya shoved the dancer out of his sister's room, and slammed the door shut with his foot. He was laughing, too. "Whatever. Gimme that." He pushed Yukito, and snatched the bottle of beer from his hand at the same time. Yukito relinquished the beer, but he retaliated, by wrenching Touya's arm hard._

_"Little shit," Touya chugged the rest of the beer. "C'mere." He took Yukito by the shirt—too drunk to remember that his sister was just sleeping in the room near them, and his father was probably still awake downstairs in the study—and yanked him in, lips crushing together messily._

_Yukito's tongue pushed through the barrier of Touya's mouth, and the striker rammed his childhood friend against the wall, letting the limber legs hoist themselves around his waist. Touya's hands thrust into Yukito's shirt, feeling the skin and wiry muscles before nearly ripping the cloth over his head. Yukito's head fell back as Touya's mouth and hands heated his body._

_There was a small moan as Touya guided them to the left of the hall, slamming Yukito once again—this time against his bedroom door. Their lips never left the other's for more than a few seconds. Yukito's hand sloppily straggled around the doorknob, attempting to grasp and turn it. Touya rammed him through completely and locked the door shut._

_The room was completely dark, and with Yukito straddling Touya, the soccer player could feel precisely how hard the dancer was, and he knew that Yukito could feel exactly how hard Touya himself was._

Touya cleared his throat. "Yeah, um, so…do you need a change of clothes or…what?" He tried not to remember. He really didn't want to remember. And he really didn't need to remember. That would complicate things and get him into shit deeper than he already was.

Uh, yeah. I don't really think that's possible, T. The shit you're in is as deep as it comes.

Yukito was rolling the water bottle back and forth in his hands, causing the duvet to slip slightly down, revealing his lower waist and thighs. Somehow, the bit of skin made the simple motion utterly erotic, and Touya really needed to get his pants on. "Yeah, guess I do."

Touya's eyes canvassed Yukito's neck…shoulders…chest…abs…torso...

…the way the sun made his dusty blond hair seem longer and thicker and richer. He didn't even dare to blink as he watched Yukito lean to the side and reach for his glasses. The way the tendons of his dancer's arms moved infinitesimally. "Touya?"

The striker blinked and shook his head swiftly. "Yeah? What?"

"Something wrong? I thought you were going to—"

"Clothes, yeah, right," Touya coughed loudly and was just turning on his heel, when Yukito apparently decided to say something that made him sink that much deeper into the shit.

"No. I thought you were going to kiss me."

Touya glanced over his shoulder at the half hopeful, partially resigned and completely post-coital expression of his childhood friend, whom he'd also just fucked. It took all of three seconds for Touya to sprint, spring, and tackle Yukito on the bed, hands to the dancer's shaft and lips on lips.

Half fun, boys. Just…don't be too loud. Wouldn't want Princess S to know that her manly, big brother is screwing her boyfriend, would we?

No, of course not.

* * *

Doumeki lowered his head further in the depths of the leather collar of his Hugo Boss. He wasn't cold at all, but the jacket served a greater purpose—not being seen by anyone he might or might not have screwed the night before at Mioru's kegger. He hadn't seen Watanuki there, and he hadn't seen Yuui there. He knew where the goalie had been—at some concert his parents had made him attend—but he'd no idea where Fluorite had been.

Which was precisely why he was at the local supermarket—a place where most of his friends/classmates would rather put on fire then actually go to—on a Saturday, wearing a Hugo Boss that could hide half his face in one duck. He just knew enough that Yuui Fluorite always came here at about noon on Saturdays, and usually Sunday mornings as well. Most times to buy medicine, and sometimes bringing Fai with him.

And that was just the case today.

Doumeki slinked through the aisles of baby food, watching Yuui charm the pharmacist into giving them God-knows-what drug, which struck Doumeki as quite strange as the Fluorite twins were practically angels sent down from above, heavenly spotlight and all—and drugs were for those who wanted perfection but couldn't quite achieve it.

He went up slowly, walking toward the pair of identical slender figures, and tapped Fai's—at least he hoped it was Fai's—shoulder. "Hey—" But Doumeki was cut off when Fai just about jumped a foot into the air, and wheeled around his eyes alarmed and wild.

Doumeki's arm fell back to his side. "Er…sorry. I was just—"

"Doumeki," Yuui turned from the pharmacist and eased his face into a smile. "Good morning. Or rather, I hope it's been a good morning for you considering how much you must've drunk last night at Mioru's."

"I didn't drink all that much." Doumeki eyed the bag Yuui had quickly given to Fai. The bottles inside of it clinked slightly.

Yuui's smile broadened artificially. "Great. Then you were sober for the sex."

"I didn't do anyone either."

The pianist's eyebrow went up as he cast a swift exchange of looks with his twin. "I'm sure you didn't. Now, if you'll excuse us. I'll see you at school on Monday, all right?"

Doumeki curled his fingers over Yuui's retreating shoulder. Fai continued to walk toward the final checkout at the front of the store. "Actually, I need to talk to you now. It'll be fast, promise."

Yuui's smile was nonexistent. "Please get your hand off of me." Doumeki took it off. "Thank you. So what do you need? And I'd like an answer that's under the PG rating, thanks. It's too early for this kind of shit."

"It's nothing like that," Doumeki blinked colorlessly. "I just need you to go out with me."

Yuui stared at him. And then laughed. If Doumeki could, he probably would've showed some sort of indignation, but the soccer player thought it was best for the moment if he continued his trademark poker face. Yuui ran his fingers through his hair, and laughed still. "Right. D, who _doesn't_ want to go out with me?"

Doumeki prayed to the gods that this wouldn't get him killed, "Ashura Ou doesn't want to go out with you."

The look on Yuui's face told the freshman that the gods probably weren't going to intervene much—or be able to intervene—once Yuui decided how much he really wanted to kill Doumeki. "Excuse me?"

Doumeki swallowed. He sighed.

Yuui's eyes narrowed. "You never talk—to anyone—hardly make a sound when we fuck, and now you come here, practically out of your own way, on a Saturday morning at some crappy little supermarket to ask me out? Why?"

"Envy isn't pretty. But it's a hell lot more effective than patience and shit. Right?" Doumeki shrugged, and raised his eyebrows. "I get who I want. And you could get who you want. We don't even have to touch each other when we're not in public."

Yuui's eyes zoomed in on his face and then zoomed in on…eh hem…other areas of his body. Doumeki focused on thoughts of punching Mioru to keep himself from blushing. "_Could_ we touch each other when we're not in public?" Yuui smiled angelically.

"Whatever you want," Doumeki said simply.

Yuui snorted with a grin, and went up to press his lips against Doumeki's collarbone—in full display of the shopping bystanders. "Is there anything I'm not allowed to do around here?"

Doumeki's mouth was half opened.

"Don't answer that, D." Yuui winked. "It was a rhetorical statement."

And even though Doumeki was doing this for the sole purpose of getting Watanuki—repeat: sole purpose—it didn't mean he couldn't enjoy it just a little, right? If he had to do all this hard work, he should be able to reap the benefits. One of which, was watching Yuui Fluorite slink away in black, form-fitting jeans.

Who knew? This could even be, dare he think it, fun.

Certainly, D. It's going to be loads of fun. For the both of us.

Just you wait.

* * *

_A/N: Sorry I've been taking so long to update. It's been, what, a week? That's a pretty long time for me. But I figured I should get a lot done because of Inauguration day--we have it off because of the D.C. area. It's packed. And weirdest thing, people from everywhere in the state--and probably more--are coming in to see the thing, and I live in the county, and I'm not going. But two of my friends are in some do-gooders club and they ARE going, and I'll just watch it on TV or something. I'm pretty indifferent to politics, so yeah. Even though it's pretty cool, I s'pose, if we think about it as how my teacher's keep saying "In a hundred plus years, from slavery to the presidency". I dunno. But I just realized--and remembered--that Lexi Matthews birthday is the day before we get our new president. So she was my first fellow KuroFai fan on FF, which means, I'd just like to wish her a happy birthday. _

_And of course, reviews. :D lol_


	8. Denial

Chapter Six: Denial

Himawari wrapped her petite arms around him, her dark curls brushing against his shoulders. She withdrew and smiled brightly with a wave of her school bag. "I'm really sorry, Watanuki. I can't have you bring me home today. My parents are taking me straight to a dinner party at the senator's house—I'll have to change clothes at the hotel and everything. I'll be gone for a week."

Watanuki could still smell the lingering of her perfume on his school uniform. He glanced at the retreating doors of Kaiyou, and how glad he was that she'd be picked up by her parents as the boys passing were already giving her discreet—or what they thought was discreet—once-overs. "It's fine," he said, forcing himself not to blush. "I've got soccer practice today, anyway. I wouldn't want you to wait for me or anything, so yeah."

She clapped her hands, making her flute case swing against her thigh. "See? It worked out great. All right, so tell your chauffeur that I'm sorry for the change of plans and I hope you have a good practice."

"I'll make sure that happens. Yeah, see you." He tilted his head slightly as she walked—skipped—away from him and toward the arch that started Kaiyou grounds. Her uniform skirt was short enough so that he could watch the bottom of her thighs brush together, but long enough to leave something—a lot of something—to the imagination. Watanuki had thought of this many times, but it always ended with the same conclusion: Himawari was just cute like that and that was why he had to protect her from the vultures at Maikeru and from getting hounded by the homos at Fuki.

So, W, it never struck you as weird that you never got hard yourself? Because I'm sure at your age, you're suppose to think girls like her are a lot more than cute, and that the only thing that makes those boys vultures is the fact that they want to do to her what you're suppose to want to do to her yourself.

Which, of course, you don't. Because you don't bat for that team, right?

Watanuki shrugged to himself and turned to head into the locker rooms. For the first time that month, the weather wasn't such a bitch and Mioru would probably be in a mood other than irritating. That is, if Mioru had even decided to show up for practice—which Watanuki had learned not to put much hope in considering how much of the captain's time was expended on his new boy toy.

Only half the team was actually present in the showers by the time he'd stuffed his bag and clothes into his locker and started undressing to change into his soccer uniform. He'd had a little trouble locating his goalie gloves that morning, so he'd had to do with makeshift ones that'd been his uncle's. He had no clue how old they actually were, but he was willing to bet that they were the proof that dinosaurs had played soccer.

And it was even more his luck that Mioru came swaggering in—looking slightly tipsy—and draped over the martial artist boy toy as tightly as if he were You-ou's swimsuit. "How goes it, boys?" Watanuki's captain called rowdily, as Kurogane steadied Mioru onto a bench.

Touya punched through the surrounding circle of soccer-toned socialites and stared down as Kurogane began taking off Mioru's—who looked more inebriated by the minute—shirt. "What the hell happened to him?"

Kurogane scowled, as he looked around. "You need to ask? He cut class, went to some shitty little pub, smashed himself, and I had to get over there before some stupid paparazzi starts taking pictures of the mayor's drunk son."

"How'd you know where he was?" Sorata leaned against the locker, casting an appraising look at his captain, who was now swaying from side to side rather giddily.

"He told me yesterday what he was planning to do," Kurogane said. "In bed. It…slipped out before he could stop it."

"Shut the fuck up, You-ou," Mioru laughed, slapping Kurogane's butt. Watanuki cleared his throat, and Touya—who was most times thought of as second-in-command of the team—banged his head against a locker.

"Great," Watanuki rubbed a hand over his eyes. "So this time our captain can't even cancel practice on account of him being a smashed lunatic. That's fucking fantastic. Take him home, You-ou."

"Yeah take him home and fuck him like you always do," another voice shouted disdainfully. The remnants of that statement began bouncing around the room, and the rest of the team followed.

"We're gonna lose the season because of you, You-ou."

"Didn't know that being gay meant you were a whore, too!"

"Does he pay you for the heads or do you just give 'em to him 'cause you need something to suck on?"

Watanuki watched Kurogane viciously glare at all of his assaulters, as the martial artist casually picked Mioru up into his arms and straightened up, making to walk out of the locker rooms. "Hey, oy, leave him alone," Touya shouted, quieting the din. "Get back to your shit. Mioru didn't cancel practice, which means I'm in charge today."

There was a collective groan, and a stomping of feet as the team went back to their original positions. Watanuki stared after Kurogane's wake. It was hard to shake out the face Kurogane had as he looked at Mioru. Watanuki had no problem with gays, or anything. He just wished he could—or that anyone could—tell Kurogane that Mioru was a little prick who didn't deserve that level of care. Mioru managed to fuck everyone—one way or the other.

Don't worry, W, hon, you'll get your turn soon.

* * *

Kurogane dropped Mioru onto his pedestal platform bed and drew all the curtains closed. It wasn't as easy as it sounded, as Mioru's bedroom had about three windows on each wall, and there were about seven walls. "Oy, You-ou," Mioru shouted, laughing more than he had on the way home—which was a feat, "C'mere. Suck my cock."

"Shut up, Mioru," Kurogane ruffled through his boyfriend's closet and dug out some clean—probably clean—clothes. "I don't care if you get yourself drunk as hell, but shut up while you're being a smashed asshole." He went to Mioru—who was shirtless on the bed—and knelt in front of him. "C'mon, sit up. Put your arms in the air."

Mioru put them up, and Kurogane slipped the clean t-shirt over the soccer captain's head, ruffling the soft, dark hair. Mioru's fogged eyes took Kurogane in, and he grinned. "You're such a liar, Kurogane. You do…" Mioru yawned. "You do so care what I do to myself." Kurogane breathed through his mouth to avoid smelling the alcohol radiating from Mioru's breath. Mioru leaned in all the way until there was nearly no space at all between his face and Kurogane's. "You care, because you're in love with me."

Kurogane pushed Mioru back onto the bed and began taking off the sophomore's uniform pants. He didn't say anything as Mioru continued to laugh and sing something that went like, "Love, love, love. Kurogane You-ou…you love me so much…" Mioru laughed again. "You can't help it. You wanna fuck me and fuck me and never stop…all the time…all night long…"

The martial artist closed his eyes briefly and sighed. He pulled up the sweatpants over Mioru's copper legs and then settled him beneath the sheets, arranging his head onto the pillow. "Go to sleep, Aoi."

"You aren't gonna come in with me?" Mioru murmured, his eyes already half closed. He managed still another half-chuckle.

Kurogane shook his head. He sat beside the blanketed form, and stroked the dark bangs off of Mioru's forehead. It was a relief when Mioru's eyes finally fully closed and his breathing evened. Kurogane knew that he'd better have at least three glasses of Eki-Kyabe ready when the soccer player woke up.

It was times like these where Kurogane wished that he could just punch Mioru right in the balls and be done with it—be done with him. It was times like these that made Kurogane wonder why he even fell in love with such a mindless, ungrateful, selfish, prick of a bastard. Most times it felt like Mioru was just screwing with him for the hell of it, and would probably kick Kurogane to the curb without another thought as soon as he got himself another boy toy.

But no matter how fucked up Mioru was, Kurogane thought as he went to mentally prepare himself to ransack Mioru's bathroom medicine cabinets—and throw away any remnants of illegal drugs he found, as drugs were one thing artists could do but athletes couldn't—if Mioru was ready to tell Kurogane to fuck off the minute someone hotter than the martial artist came around…

Kurogane would kill anyone who was.

That's hilarious, K-rin. Like _anyone_ can actually be hotter than you. That's like saying someone can be more of a twat than M. And sweetheart, the impossible doesn't stop there.

* * *

Watanuki winced as he took off his borrowed goalie gloves—his ancient borrowed goalie gloves. The way the fucked-up things worked, he might as well have been wearing white tea gloves while trying to stop the shots that otherwise should've burned a hole right through his hands. The damage wasn't too bad as he assessed it. The palms were more than a little bruised and mangled, but there weren't any broken fingers.

"I don't get why you didn't just buy a pair of gloves on your way to school," Touya said, as he cruised by, half-naked and dripping wet. "That's gonna hurt like a bitch in the shower."

"Thanks," Watanuki rolled his eyes. "It takes at least two weeks of straight practice to break a new pair in. Mioru would kill me."

Sorata collapsed onto the bench beside the goalie. "Dude, Mioru's too busy fucking to do much of anything. That's the perk of him having a new toy. He's too busy screwing around to give a shit about anything else."

Kakyo—defender—smacked the back of Sorata's head as he yanked the forward to his feet. "Hurry up and go. Your little dancer's going to murder you unless you get going. Aren't you taking her to a hotel tonight?"

Touya slapped Sorata on the back. "Why didn't you tell us you were going to get some tonight? It's been, what, a decade since you got laid?"

The forward looked irritated as he stood up, but Watanuki knew that he was basking in the attention—as any teenage boy would be. "A decade ago I was learning how to write in cursive, dumbass. And you speak one word of this to Arashi and I'll make sure to murder every single one of you."

"Oh," Touya said teasingly. "So it's a surprise screw, is it?" He looked over to Watanuki and wagged his eyebrows. "You might learn a thing or two from this one here, baby boy. You'll finally be able to bag your flutist babe."

"Shut your mouth," Watanuki looked up from what was left of his hands. "I'm not some wild animal—I'm not going to ravish her against some tree in full view of the town. Or 'surprise' her at a hotel," he added when Sorata opened his mouth. "We're not even together yet—everything will happen when she's good and ready."

Touya groaned. "Here we go again. Y'know, I'm starting to have my doubts that you're even straight. You could get a lot of cock if you—"

"Hey." Doumeki ghosted behind Touya, causing the striker to jump.

"Christ, Doumeki," Touya scowled. "You scared the shit out of me. Although, I'm glad to see you can still talk. You haven't said a word the entire month's worth of practices. Not that you usually talk much, but you at least do monosyllables."

"I've just had a lot on my mind," Doumeki turned his head down and began to bore holes into Watanuki's pupils. The goalie found it hard pressed to even blink beneath the intensity of the stare.

"Don't we all," Sorata muttered. "Well, I'll be going now." He swung his bag over his shoulder and held up a hand after his retreating back. "See y'all tomorrow. If Mioru gets the hell up."

Happy hunting!

Touya snorted. "All right, you lot. Clear out. Watanuki, do something about your hands. And the rest of you," the striker glanced around, "I don't care if Mioru has his dick somewhere where it shouldn't be, or if You-ou's cock gets stuck in him. We're having practice tomorrow unless the world ends—and if that happens, you're all excused."

It was less of a groan and more of a series of offensive grumbling that echoed through the locker rooms at Touya's mini declaration. Watanuki sighed and refocused his attention to his hands. His poor, poor hands. He didn't even know if he'd brought his roll of gauze with him to wrap them—let alone any peroxide to disinfect it.

A hand slipped onto his knee. Watanuki raised an eyebrow. Doumeki was kneeling in front of him with a roll of bandages balanced on his littlest finger, and a bottle of some alcohol medicine in the other. "It isn't peroxide," Doumeki said quietly. "But it's pretty okay—won't hurt as bad. I just used it a few minutes ago." Without another word, he took Watanuki's right hand.

"Whoa, whoa, hold up," Watanuki said hurriedly before the striker could do anything. "I can do it by myself. It's fine."

"Both of your hands are shit," Doumeki said expressionlessly. "Shit can't do anything until it's fixed, so let me do it. Shut up." Watanuki scowled, but for the most part, he just hoped to heaven and hell that none of the others would see this. It was common ground that you took care of your own crap in the locker rooms. Even the ones who were gay never slept with anyone in the team—or rather, if they did, they made sure it didn't progress into anything more than a one-night stand.

There's a first for everything, right, W?

Watanuki swallowed as Doumeki slowly wound the white gauze around and around his injured hands. The mysterious medicine that'd been used stung quite a bit, but not as much as he knew peroxide would have. But the craziest thing was that Watanuki didn't even really feel it. He just felt the heat of Doumeki's hands on his.

Not that it meant anything. Watanuki was probably just still defrosting from the early spring cold. It'd been pretty cloudy, too, and the breeze was considerably strong and all—

Mm hm. Sure it was, babe. That's what they all say.

* * *

He knew that he was a little shit for thinking this, but it really was good to be Yuui Fluorite. Or rather, it was just really excellent that he was born looking like someone men and women both wanted to do until they were impotent. And that just proved his point more when he walked through the doors of Maikeru, only to have even the straightest of eyes—eyes that usually cared for curves and soft bodies—giving him an appreciative glance.

But of course, Yuui had long ago taken the "look, don't touch" saying to an entirely new level and then furthered to put it onto a pedestal. He only smiled benignly at all the winks and stares as he made the familiar path to the locker rooms. He had business there.

And of course, his business was holding hands and gazing into some other boy's eyes. But that was nothing new. Yuui was irresistible, and he knew it, which, made him just that more irresistible. And he knew that, too. He stood behind Doumeki and leaned down, until they were cheek and cheek against each other. "Hey there." He smiled at the bespectacled boy. "And who are you?"

"Kimihiro Watanuki," the boy stammered. "You're Yuui Fluorite."

"I know I am," Yuui said patiently. He smiled. "What happened to your hands? They look like someone put them through a cheese grater."

Doumeki stood up. "Let's just go. I'll see you tomorrow," he aimed at Watanuki. Yuui raised an eyebrow discreetly at the boy's direction, and flashed another mega watt smile. "Let's _go_," Doumeki repeated, yanking on the pianist's arm.

As soon as they were into the courtyard, Yuui slipped his fingers through Doumeki's. "So," Yuui grinned, "Was that him? The one who you've fallen in love with and must have otherwise you'll die of grief and therefore be plaque-d into the Romeo and Juliet hall of fame?"

Doumeki just stared at him. "Sure."

Yuui laughed and shook his head. "How can anyone have a relationship with you? You never fucking talk. And when you do, it's either in monosyllables, an insult, or something that makes people think that if they looked up sarcasm in the dictionary, your picture would be there next to it."

Doumeki looked at his feet.

Yeah, there's a response. You tell him, D.

Yuui sighed, and put an arm around his waist. "Sorry." He leaned his pale blond head into the soccer jersey-clad shoulder. "Kyle's not going to be home, and he doesn't give a crap what me and Fai do while he's gone. You wanna…stay for dinner or something?"

Doumeki took one look down at the blue eyes as they reached Yuui's limo, and then said, "Ou's going to be there, isn't he?"

"Damn right."

"I'll go."

* * *

_A/N: I'm going to try to work on finishing the next chapter in Rule--all I can say is that things get a lot hotter (and not just the weather, although that goes up, too). And y'know, since in Secrets everyone was out and proud about being gay or straight or bi or whatever, I thought that there should be a little coming-out-of-the-closet in Intrigue, and which person better to do that than W? Lol. _

_Reviews. 0_0/ :D_


	9. Worst

Chapter Seven: Worst

_What's up, butterflies?_

_And no, I'm not trying to nose around about what's gone up whom—or who's gone up whom. I'm just politely asking about what you might all be doing this lovely Saturday evening. As for me—thanks for asking—I'll be attending Dr. K's spring benefit._

_I also happen to know that our little maestro from Akamizu will also be attending—as the benefit in is in his hometown. And although most of you don't know—or care—much about the going-ons of high schoolers, I'll have you who're wishing you could jump in bed with our little maestro that he already has a someone special._

_Of course, as this certain someone is below the legal age, and I really don't want to go behind bars—what would this world come to, were I arrested?—I can't really talk about him much._

_But I can still say that he's ah-dorable._

_Although, I've seen la petit maestro around campus, and I must say, I'm not feeling the love. I'm certainly feeling the sex, but not the love._

_Gaspeth._

_Could it be…that our little maestro is CHEATING on the baby high school darling that he's pledge his heart—and his cock—to right before he left the steamy halls of Fuki Institution?_

_WHAT has this world come to?_

_Nothing it hasn't already been at._

_And, I highly doubt it, but just in the rare, impossible case that our little maestro's certain someone is reading this, I just want to give him a tiny, itty, bitty piece of advice._

_Until you can get your own tight trumpeter ass up into college, I suggest you find someone your own size to screw, and wait to impress and seduce the maestro yourself. Because really, high school vs. college? Who do YOU think's going to win?_

_Try again, honey._

_I mean, really, did you honestly think someone like this here maestro was actually going to stay faithful to you? We'll forgive you this one time, sweetling. Really, you're only in high school. I'd be shocked if you _weren't_ naïve as a little baby._

_--Hold on to the W in bWitch._

"God, I hate her," Subaru threw the phone onto the sleek black countertop and violently pushed himself around to spin on the island bar chairs. "I hate him, too."

Kamui didn't look up from his laptop, typing away merrily at the glass dining table across the cavernous grand kitchen—a kitchen that would probably be able to house three entire families of six, and feed them as well. "Uh, yeah, no you don't. Because if you did, then there wouldn't be a problem and you wouldn't give a crap."

Subaru sighed, staring at this spinning phone, and then steadied himself against the island. "I know," he said quietly. "I know. You don't have to tell me. He's going to tell me one way or another—at the benefit. He absolutely loves reminding me, and I don't even know why I like the bastard."

The writer continued to write without a single glance up to his twin. "Mm hm. Yeah, well, that's something we all wonder. Just like how I wonder why I like some little shit two years younger than me when I could have anyone and everyone in the world."

"No you can't," Subaru jumped off the stool and went to the stainless steel refrigerator—which happened to be twice as tall as him and his brother, and twice as wide as both of them put together. "Fluorite could, but you could only probably get half."

"Still, that isn't bad considering I'm only sixteen."

"Yeah, and in love with your brother's boyfriend's brother—little brother, at that."

Kamui finally looked up, slamming down his laptop. "Excuse me? I thought you said brother's boyfriend."

"I did."

"Well, then you need to fix that. Because the minute Sei-fucking-shiro gets out of his limo, you're going to kick him off a cliff and make sure he stays down there and never gets up. He's fucked around with you plenty. Lose him. We're twins. If I can get whoever I want, you could, too. Fluorite's got it pretty good considering who he likes."

Subaru shrugged, smiling sadly. "Everyone knows who he likes. Except maybe his own brother and the person he likes."

"No, I'm pretty sure Ou knows. I don't know about Fai, though." Kamui took a small white box out of his pocket and opened it. He held it out to his brother. "You want one? They're new. Just got them."

Subaru shook his head. "Y'know mom doesn't like us smoking in the house."

Kamui snorted. "She probably wouldn't like you sleeping with a college guy, but you do it anyway." He shrugged, "She doesn't even know I smoke, period. It helps me to write. But of course, she wouldn't approve of that. She thinks I should just become a journalist like Yuuko Ichihara. Has there ever been a day when she doesn't talk about the bitch?"

And why wouldn't someone talk about moi? Hmm, deary K?

"Parents don't read anything except Elite," Subaru said. "They wouldn't know what Yuuko does out of the…social norms. So they think she's just this good-to-the-bone, honest reporter who makes our life actually seem respectable."

Kamui laughed. "Drugs—most of which are illegally trafficked—underage drinking, premarital and underage sex, partying on school nights, keggers, excess nightlife…yeah, sounds pretty respectable to me."

"I said it _seems_ respectable. Anyway, it's not like you've had much luck with Fuuma, either."

"I'm trying to pretend he doesn't exist." Kamui glanced at his brother. "Hey, get me some of that, too, will you? Marlboro always makes me thirsty—it's the cheapest thing in the world."

Subaru dug back into the cooler beside the refrigerator and came back to hand his brother a glass of Prosecco. "Thanks." Kamui clinked his glass to his twin's and chugged the liquid contents in one go. He took another quick drag of his cigarette and blew out the smoke thoughtfully, leaning back against the chair, legs stretched out.

"Why're you avoiding him? 'Cause he's a freshman from Maikeru?"

"I don't even know if he likes me—Christ, I don't even know if he's gay."

Subaru raised an eyebrow and gestured toward his brother. "For you, anyone's gay—or straight, depending on who they are. I think that cellist over at Kaiyou might want you."

"Why?" Kamui snorted again. "Because she kept talking to me at Aoi's kegger? She talks to a lot of guys—I heard she sleeps around, too. And besides, she's like…ten."

"I'm sure she's older than that—a girl's age isn't determined by aforementioned girl's chest. And I meant her sister."

"Oh, her. She's hot." Kamui grimaced. "But she's a bitch. Besides, I heard she was going with that other guy—the sophomore soccer player…the baby…what's his name?"

"Syaoran Li."

"Yeah him."

Subaru leaned back beside his brother contemplatively. "Amaterasu Daidoji and Syaoran Li. Isn't that a bit odd though? I mean, they're two years apart. Girls like Daidoji don't get with guys like Li."

Kamui watched the smoke play out of his mouth slowly and sighed. "Well, they do now, apparently. I told you that people are getting out of whack. Someone needs to straighten them up. We're getting sloppy. The Bitch always said that, 'If you don't care about anything in life, at least care about who you sleep with'. And you should know that I applaud her every action."

"I don't. She's a stalker."

"Now look here, baby brother," Kamui nursed the edge of his cigarette. "When you can pull it off as well as that bitch can, it doesn't matter what the hell you do—be it stalking minors or bitching about people she doesn't even know. I'm actually planning to intern for her."

Subaru smiled. "You're insane."

"I know." Kamui grinned, and took another drag.

Ain't that the truth.

* * *

Touya bounded down the stairs, only to come to a complete and abrupt stop at the foot of the swirling staircase. His eyes swept the scene and he'd like nothing more than to simply continue his way to the kitchen, maybe to banter with his father—who'd just returned from a business trip—or go onto his phone and check Mioru's ever-expanding guest list for his birthday party. But he couldn't.

He couldn't, because none of those things would make better the fact that his sister was still making-out in the atrium with her boyfriend, none other than Yukito Tsukishiro. Touya shook his head to himself. He really should stop announcing the dancer's name mentally. It was a sure sign that he was losing whatever sanity he had left.

Sakura spotted him—of course she did—and bounced over to him. Touya grimaced inwardly, as lately, when his sister skipped and bounced, her legs weren't the only thing in motion, and he'd noticed that the boys at Maikeru thought so, too.

And darling, if you were straight and unrelated to her, I'm sure you'd think so, too. But, we all know what you'd much rather watch something else on someone else bounce up and down—or maybe just stay up.

"Hey, Yukito and I were going to head to Fuuma's—his parents are in Berlin for the week. Are you going?" Sakura clasped her hands and looked at him hopefully with puppy eyes that only a baby sister would know how to do. And Touya would've fallen for it, were it not for the fact that he was experienced enough to catch the devious glint.

"It's a school night," said Touya.

"Since when have you cared?" Sakura laughed. "Come on! It'll be fun. I heard that Syaoran Li—you know, from your team—was coming back from his three-week trip to Italy—visiting his twin in rehab and all. And that his brother's coming back with him to apply for Maikeru."

Touya made a face. "You mean Fuuka? That little twat is coming to my school? I thought he was in a coma or something. What did he get sent to rehab for again?"

Yukito stepped forward, his glasses glinting softly. Touya swallowed. "He had a little too much fun on his date with crystal," the dancer said quietly, looking steadily at Touya's eyes. "Syaoran's parents shipped him off to Italy first chance they got. The rehab center in Tuscany."

"Christ, and now he's back?" Touya wrinkled his nose. "Great."

"He's a martial artist," Sakura continued, wagging her eyebrows energetically and jumping from foot to foot nimbly, throwing mock punches to the air. "Karate, I think."

"Just like Kuro-fucking-gane," Touya observed, crossing his arms, as he leaned away from Yukito. "So how do you know all this anyway? Hope it's not by some bitch-gossip methods."

Sakura pouted, and then laughed. "I was just emailing Syaoran. We've been talking a lot this semester. He seemed really cool and sad over his brother and the whole crystal deal at the Christmas Gala Mioru Aoi's dad threw."

Touya's arms tightened at the tiny shimmer in his sister's eyes. He snorted and said, "He was probably trying gather enough for a sympathy fuck. Dunno if he succeeded—you tell me. You did go missing for quite a while during the toast at the end though…"

Sakura slammed her palm into Touya's shoulder. "God, Touya! Does everything have to be about me becoming a slut and doing it with every guy in sight? God." She thinned her lips and screamed at him before running up the stairs. Touya heard her slam her bedroom door loudly—and pointedly.

"You shouldn't have said it like that," a hand touched his own carefully. Yukito sidestepped in front of Touya, the bespectacled golden eyes gently, caressingly admonishing. "She's just friends with him. Isn't that all right? Unlike me, the flighty dancer," Yukito smiled teasingly, "or Fuuka, the bad boy, Syaoran's the best do-gooder kid you could ever find for Sakura."

"She's got you." Touya pulled away from Yukito. "And she can't even fucking be happy with that. She doesn't fucking know how lucky she is to have a guy that's neither self-destructive, thinks he's the greatest shit that ever happened to this world, and a guy that actually cares about her."

"That's a pretty picture you just painted," Yukito said sadly. "There's just one little problem with it. One thing you forgot to add in."

"What?"

"This," Yukito breathed.

And then he was kissing Touya.

Touya did not handle it well.

"What the fuck are you doing?" Touya hissed. "Get the hell away from me. You're dating my fucking sister, twat." He shoved Yukito away hard enough to knock his glasses askew.

Yukito's mouth was open blankly for all of two seconds before he closed it and righted his glasses. He cast his eyes to the floor and then slowly up back to Touya's incredulous face. "Sorry. My mistake." He backed away carefully and hesitantly as though trying to escape a volatile animal that might attack at any moment. He opened the door and glanced at Touya long and slow. "Tell Sakura I remembered I had an essay to finish."

The millisecond the door clicked shut, Touya knew that it was he who'd just made the fucking biggest mistake of his fucking life. Not Yukito.

But either way, they were both screwed.

Best of luck!

* * *

Yuui breathed out in relief. Doumeki was out and dinner was done. It'd been more nerve-wracking than he'd imagined. And to make things worse, he didn't even know if it'd been worth it or not. Ashura never seemed like the type to fall victim to the green-eyed monster. Unlike Yuui.

And even though he felt like killing himself for feeling this way, he couldn't help but think how lucky it was that Fai was still recovering—emotionally and physically—from the last session to do any kissing or touching or fooling around or anything at all really with Ashura. At least Yuui didn't have to watch them.

God, he was the worst fucking brother ever.

Aw, baby, I wouldn't say _the_ worst brother ever.

"Are you going to Fuuma's?" Yuui asked, half-sitting on the edge of the white leather sofa opposite the settee Ashura had encumbered Fai on. "His parents are doing something in Germany for the decade or shit."

Ashura turned to Fai immediately—of course he did. "Do you want to go? You still look…sick to me. I don't know what you had but it must have exhausting—you look…" Ashura laughed. "If you'll forgive me, you look like crap, Fai. Which is rare for you."

Fai smiled, exhaling. "Thanks so much. I feel just as good as I look. But we should go to Fuuma's. I heard that you didn't go to the kegger that night and you—"

"I guess that means we'll pass," Ashura grinned apologetically at Yuui, causing the pianist to nearly develop a blood clot somewhere near the heart.

I'm sure I can think of another place the blood would be rushing to, hon. A's smiles can do that to a boy—or a girl. Or any person.

Fai swept his legs up to his knees and shoved Ashura on the shoulder. "Come on. I'm not sick. It's not like I'm sixty. What's the worse I could get? A cold? The flu? Possibly strip throat, and maybe cancer at a long shot."

Yuui laughed. "Just get some rest, Fai. So don't play too late, all right, boys?" He flashed a quick smile at Ashura. "I have no clue when Kyle's going to be back, but tell him I'm at a friend's doing homework. I'll be back by two if I can."

"How do you even know if it's going to be that crazy?" Ashura said, sounding—dare Yuui think it—concerned.

Yuui raised his eyebrows high, and smirked. "The Maestro's in town to visit his baby brother."

Fai straightened in his seat exponentially. All the color seemed to return to his face and his eyes widened. "He's back? Seriously?" Ashura just stared at Fai for a long moment and laughed, putting his lips against the violinist's hair.

"The official word is that he's coming to attend Kyle's benefit, and that he's staying for spring break, so he'll be here for a while," Yuui said. "But that's just the official cover. He's probably here to break Subaru's heart. Again."

Fai fell back against Ashura's chest. "I'll see him some time else then," his brother said quietly, head going limp. "I need to talk to him about something."

Yuui saw Ashura's eyes narrow far enough for it to be visible to another eye, but not enough for him to figure out what it meant or what kind of eye-narrowing it was. But what happened next reeled Yuui in hook, line, and sinker: Ashura flickered his gaze to him, and the look in his dark eyes was furious—furious and terrified.

"Yeah. He'll be around for a while, like I said," Yuui said, backtracking toward the door with light steps. "I'll see you when I get back—whenever that's going to be. Later."

He couldn't get out of there fast enough.

Just keep on running, Y. Not that you need the exercise. You already have plenty of that—I mean, what with getting laid more often than you read a book, and trying to sort all the shit in your life.

Yep. I'd say you're getting just the right amount of physical exertion for a boy your age. And you know, I meant what I said earlier on. You aren't the _worst_ brother ever.

Just one of them.

* * *

_A/N: So Kamui and Subaru--our other favorite twins--got some air time, and our other favorite brothers are going to get some air time next chapter. And it'll be the first party scene I write for Intrigue next chapter, too. Also, I'm just going to put this out there if some people are wondering why Fai's getting so little air time (yes, I'm a big enough writing dork to think of the time a character gets in the story as "air time" and that I bring the characters on set 0_0) or if some of you are just wondering when he'll get in.....see, Secrets was all about Fai, and Intrigue is about how everything got to be as complicated and ready to be resolved in Secrets. Because--I don't know if it was noticeable enough in the possibly too-discreet way I mentioned--all of the little side problems with Subaru and Seishiro, Kamui and Fuuma, Doumeki and Watanuki, Kamui and Amaterasu, Sakura and Syaoran, Mioru and Kurogane, Yuui and Ashura--everything was already cooled down and ready to be shipped off to the bakery, whereas now they're all hot and out of the oven and just developing. _

_I've never written a prequel before, so I don't know if that's how it should be done, but since I'm following Gossip Girl, that prequel-- "It Had To Be You"--is like this, and I thought it'd be fun to write it like this, so....yeah. I suppose this is serving more as a self-ramble.....ah well. I mean, I had all of their pasts and interactions down before I wrote Secrets, so if you find something or something happens (plot point, hint-hint-nudge-nudge) that seems to contradict Secrets, just remember: It was called Secrets for a reason, and people--really, their just kids actually--kids like these who like everything perfect often pretend certain things didn't happen (plot point, hint-hint-nudge-nudge)_

_Anyhoo, 'nuff is 'nuff. Reviews. _


	10. Maestro

Chapter Nine: Maestro

The Sakurazuka house was built like one enormous loft consisting of smaller, more intricate lofts within—making up the various (extremely various) rooms. It was rare and precious when Fuuma or Seishiro threw a house party because due to the glass walls that made up most of the house, all the neighbors—although a good two acres away one either side—could clearly see what was going on.

But the Maestro returning to his hometown was something to be celebrated, and the fact that Mr. and Mrs. Sakurazuka were in Berlin was the perfect opportunity. Of course, there were certain people that simply had to attend, not because of formality—for the party was anything but—but rather because the Maestro had served as a mentor for those he thought would actually amount to something.

In other words, like a certain bewitching person, the Maestro's got an eye for real talent—and beauty.

Yuui Fluorite was probably the best known that'd been taken in by Seishiro. Which meant that he had some sort of obligation to go to the party and greet Seishiro. Besides, Yuui needed to have a word with his mentor. More than one, in fact.

The party was already raving when Yuui arrived. Most of the lights had been dimmed and the beer and wine was being passed around at an alarming rate. There was smoke wafting in the air, students from all four high-schools sharing bongs and a few who seemed to be dealing out tiny packets and bottles of white powder, along with some who handed out syringes as well.

Yuui admired the way a pathway through the crowd was instantly formed for him. There was once a time when he'd almost dreaded having to attend parties like these because of the irritation caused by all the groping hands that felt just behind the tops of his thighs and at his crotch. But now, of course, it'd been long cleared that touching Yuui Fluorite was equal to instant social death.

Doumeki was waiting for him on a pitch black suede sofa that had quite a few suspicious-looking stains on it—stains that looked considerably freshly spilt to Yuui. The pianist bent low and kissed him long and hard on the lips. "Having fun?" Yuui smiled.

The soccer player blinked and stood up. "He's over there."

Yuui tilted his head in the direction Doumeki blatantly pointed at. "I know. Have you seen Subaru anywhere? I'm pretty sure I know where Kamui's at. I need to talk to them, too."

"No." Doumeki swiveled around, his eyes searching the donut of people and the clusters beyond the little squished bunches in the room. "I should go. I need to look."

"For who? Watanuki?" Yuui asked with a raised eyebrow. "Not tonight, you aren't. You can't always be there for him if you want him to like you. Or want you. Or realize that he does. That comes later in the schedule. For now, ignore him and pretend he doesn't exist."

"But he does."

"That doesn't mean you need to acknowledge it. Besides," Yuui tousled Doumeki's hair and smirked. "Absence makes the heart grow fonder. And it makes a whole lot of other things plenty fonder—and harder." He stood up and brushed his tongue lightly over Doumeki's lips. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to speak with the Maestro. Have your chauffeur pick me up for school."

High maintenance, much?

"Sure," Doumeki stuffed his hands into the pockets of his jeans. "So—"

"But don't go home," Yuui ordered briskly, stepping forward and causing the Red Sea to part for him again. "We have a little show to put on for your dear Watanuki—once I find him." And then he started back off into the crowd, leaving Doumeki to shrug and put his beer bottle to his lips for a swig.

* * *

Subaru put his hands in his pockets and cleared his throat. He arched one eyebrow at the entangled mess of limbs, hair, beer, and blankets on the circular plush sofa. He pulled half of his mouth into a bitter smile. "Good to see you, Seishiro."

The conductor raised his dark head, and in turn, the boy blowing him raised his head from blowing Seishiro. The boy straightened his clothes and jumped nimbly from the couch, and Seishiro's eyes followed him amusedly before turning back to Subaru. "Good evening. Enjoying yourself?"

"Not as much as you seem to be." Subaru's lifeless tone seemed to give Seishiro's smile something to broaden about, as the college freshman wrapped his long fingers around Subaru's wrist and pulled him close, hands catching the trumpeter's waist. "Let go of me. I'm sure there are people more apt than myself who you'd much rather have, _Maestro_."

Seishiro's expression simply remained the same—smiling and lightly amused, maybe even a bit bored. His finger cuffed the belt loop of Subaru's black jeans until they were crotch to crotch. "What sort of welcome is that? I came back here just for you, y'know."

Unbelievable, isn't he? But that's why we love him, right, darlings?

Subaru's mind was practically shaking the inner walls of his head, banging and screaming and thumping against the area around his brain, yelling at him to get away because even humans had instinct, and instinct told you to move away, run away, sprint and jump and flee away from a battle you couldn't win—for your mental, physical, and emotional well-being, and Seishiro was hazardous to all three in Subaru's case.

Subaru looked at Seishiro with skeptical eyes. "Why would you need me? You have everyone else dancing on the palm of your hand. I don't even know why you bothered to come for Rondart's benefit. It's not like your name needs any more promotion."

Seishiro yanked Subaru's shirt collar until their faces were inches away. The conductor kissed Subaru on the mouth definitely and leaned back to smile at him. "If I want to be able to conduct by the time I graduate—professionally that is, I'll need patrons, and I was hoping Rondart could be one of them. And besides, I did miss you, you know." Seishiro raised his eyebrows. "Really."

C'mon, S III, don't fall for it. Shoulders back, head high—

The trumpeter stroked Seishiro's cheek, holding the side of his head, and reaching up through the dark, thick hair. Subaru let Seishiro pull him down onto the circular plush sofa and guide him onto his back. He let Seishiro ride his hands up into his shirt, playing and teasing against his skin. He closed his eyes and let Seishiro conduct—let Seishiro take his place in the conductor's box and orchestrate everything.

After all, that was how it'd always been, right? Subaru was only a trumpeter. All he could ever do was sit in the chair, behind his music stand, put up his horn and blow. He could never match Seishiro—Seishiro, who got up in front of millions and led an entire fleet of musicians, musicians who depended on him to keep them together, and followed every move of his hand.

It wasn't like Subaru ever stood a chance. And even if he'd had one in the beginning—maybe even just the slightest resemblance of a chance—it'd been all taken away long ago, all fallen and destroyed the minute Subaru became one of the blessed students to have been taken in by Seishiro Sakurazuka, the Maestro of Fuki, and now Akamizu's Maestro.

Hon, it's not that you never stood a chance. It's that you love him.

* * *

Yuui took another swig of his scotch, set it down on the nearest table and then proceeded to jumping a slender boy with tousled black hair right into the black settee directly beside them. The pianist turned the boy around and looked straight into Kamui's singed gray eyes. Yuui grinned as he pinned Kamui's wrists. "Did you move to Antarctica?"

Kamui's almost perpetually raised eyebrows went even higher into his signature disheveled bangs. "I was seriously debating with myself whether I should loan an igloo from an Eskimo, or whether I should just rough it out with the penguins. Which do you think?"

"I'd go with the penguins. Eskimos only live in the north. Shouldn't you already know that?" Yuui kissed Kamui on the lips briskly, before rolling off from on top of the journalist and lying on his side, one arm propping his head.

"Just because I'm a writer, doesn't necessarily mean I'm an encyclopedia," Kamui stretched his arms luxuriously, and sat up as well. He breathed in and out deeply, thoughtfully, and took a sip of Yuui's half-discarded scotch. "So, how's the brother/boyfriend drama going?"

"Shitty," Yuui shrugged, taking back his drink. "Do you have a smoke on you?"

Kamui rummaged in his pockets for a bit, finally retrieving a small white stick. "Just this. Last batch—and it was a good one, too. I think Subaru might have stolen most of it from my room, though. I don't even remember giving him the combination to my safe."

"Everyone knows the combination."

"I changed it last week."

"Oh." Yuui watched the writer light the pot and put it to his lips, letting the smoke gather in his mouth and pop out. The pianist parted his lips and allowed Kamui to shotgun him. Yuui kept the stick in his mouth, taking it out between his fingers and returning it to Kamui. "Since when does Subaru smoke? The most I've known him for is a pint of Prosecco per…night."

"Since the Maestro," Kamui said with bitter relish, "went to fucking Akamizu and Ichihara started reporting on Sakurazuka's misadventures in the bedrooms of numerous legacies and legends and all the other big flyers that as of now—in high school—Subaru doesn't stand a fucking chance against."

Yuui snorted, taking the joint for another go. "And that bothers him? Hasn't he seen what everyone else is going through? I don't see why you give such a crap about him—he'll learn and he'll get over it. The Maestro's a player, and there's nothing that's going to change that."

"Like you have any right to talk," Kamui shoved the pianist playfully—and in a rather stoned manner. "You're the one that keeps hoping against hope that your own darling, baby brother's going to realize that he doesn't really love Ashura, and that the tortured artist is going to hold you in his arms from evening till dawn. Not only that, you're the one that keeps grinding his innards every night when Rondart screws—and lets others screw—Fai into the floor, bed, table, countertop, car, garage wall, bathroom tile—"

"Enough," Yuui whispered. "I get it. I'll shut up." The two boys remained like that, silent, and side-by-side on their stomachs, sharing more than just a joint. Kamui was the only one who knew about Yuui and Fai's real living arrangements, because Kamui was the only one who'd ever understand that there were some things that were better left untold to the authorities and left just as they were. Kamui was a writer—he knew how the story always went, and he knew how real life would never go.

"Sorry," Kamui said softly, after a pause. "Is he doing any better?"

"Worse. All my fault, of course."

"You know, I think that one day, Fai and I should get together with you and shoot paintballs at your head so that maybe that would justify your self-loathing and you'd actually like yourself for a change. So where is the condemned man tonight?"

"With Ashura."

Kamui's voice rose in understanding and slight mock. "I see. So you're alone? No date, no fuck buddy?"

"Just you," Yuui smiled. "No…I do have this kid with me—a freshman. He's got a hell of a problem, too, and he doesn't fuck like a freshman, so…y'know. Why the hell not, right? I'm supposed to help him put on a show for his little sweetheart."

Kamui stared at Yuui's angelically smiling face for three minutes. "You sadistic son of a bitch." The journalist shook his head. "You're going to break two poor boys' hearts tonight, aren't you?"

"I'm only aiming for one, but if it's two, they'll get over it together. Besides, everyone needs a push in the right direction, and I don't do gentle prods. I shove them off the damn cliff, and if they don't have a parachute, they'll just have to learn to fly, won't they?" Yuui pursed his lips around the joint.

The writer shook his head. "A man after the Maestro's own heart, surely. Anyone who talks to you for ten minutes would be able to instantly distinguish that the man of my brother's wet dreams was your mentor."

"You make it sound like it's something to be ashamed of," Yuui laughed. "I'm rather proud. It's not as easy as it looks to be Seishiro Sakurazuka, the Maestro. And I'm certainly not taking over his legacy. Anyway, everyone already knows my name too well."

"I think everyone knows a lot more than just your name. Your entire image's become synonymous with the whole concept of promiscuity, along with terms such as slut and man-whore." Kamui, this time, let Yuui shotgun him.

Yuui eased a smile onto his lips and threw back his head, the hair falling airily back from his face. "So? Let them. It's not entirely a lie, and it's not like I've got anything else to do. If I can't have who I love, why not have some fun? I'm rich, I'm young, I'm beautiful and I'm talented. I've also got the best fucking future waiting for me—it's practically on a shelf with my name written on it."

Kamui pulled himself another drink from a nearby bottle and held the glass up to Yuui's own. "Then, a toast." Yuui grinned, and held up his glass. "To the return of our Maestro—your mentor—and to fucking them all."

It's nice to see young boys bond over their troubles in life, isn't it?

* * *

_A/N: I love Yuui and Kamui as friends. And if you're wondering why they kissed and if they like each other, it's not that. It's just that they're...they're sexual people, and they're physical people because they've been raised that way, but it's like a friend-kiss. Personally, I think them shotgunning and sharing a joint is hot. _

_ANYhoo........Reviews._


	11. Mentor

Chapter Ten: Mentor

_Doumeki is encumbered with a group of girls who looked rather stoned, high, and drunk all at once. He's stuck in yet another human donut, and doesn't quite know how to get out without unintentionally injuring one or two of the girls surrounding him. He recognizes one of the chatting girls, as Touya Kinomoto's little sister, and another as the genius Tomoyo Daidoji. _

_Just as he's pondering on how perhaps if he spoke loud enough the inebriated females—who were ignoring him completely in their state—would stop giggling about the music booming around the house, shaking the glass, and maybe let him pass through, Yuui's pale, cold hand takes hold of his arm and yanks him through the donut._

"_I thought you died," Doumeki says bluntly, letting Yuui entwine his slender arm through Doumeki's burly one. The pianist leads him through the dancing, drinking, and stoning crowd to the more complacent areas where the people are still slightly sober. _

"_And what a tragedy that would've been." Yuui smiles. He looks around briefly and discreetly, and then refocuses his gaze fixedly onto Doumeki. "Are you up for that show that I said we need to put on? The stage is set."_

"_What sta—"_

_Yuui's silky infant lips muffle Doumeki's inquiry. The soccer player's eyes are stuck open, but as the thin arms snake their way around his neck, Doumeki's eyes begin to close…his body begins to enjoy the sensation…especially in places down south. He can almost feel Yuui's lips move into a grin against his. Well why wouldn't he? Doumeki is even starting to really get into it—one of his hands diving upward into Yuui's shirt, while the other submerges itself into the musician's jeans. _

_Yuui slowly removes his lips and brings them to Doumeki's ear and whispers, "Looks like it worked." He draws to the side infinitesimally, so that Doumeki's hands were still on him, but the forward can see how—even though he himself hasn't noticed in the heat of the moment—the crowd around them has hushed with dramatic pause, and at the fringe of the wide donut (he was beginning to really hate the pastry) stands Watanuki, his eyes wide behind the glasses. _

_Doumeki wants to do three things: First, he wants to kick Yuui into oblivion. Second, he wants to destroy with a passion the donut and all other human donuts in the world. And last, he wants to tackle Watanuki into the ground and let him know through physical—yes, that kind of physical—means that he in no way has any feelings for Yuui Fluorite. _

_But, of course, he does no such things._

Doumeki's eyes shot open, and he stared at the sandy yellow—Sabakurein's color, and the color nearly every room was painted in the Doumeki estate as Mr. Doumeki and Grandfather Haruka were all graduates of Sabakurein, making Doumeki a legacy—ceiling. He sat bolt straight and stared ahead expressionlessly, as Kiiro, the maid that'd been with him since he was three, opened the curtains—a different shade of yellow—and let the sunlight pour through.

"Do you need some Eki-Kyabe, Shizu?" She asked, sounding both amused and exasperated. Kiiro wasn't old, but she wasn't exactly young and naïve either. She looked to be in her early twenties, but Doumeki new she was at least a decade older than that. Her sand-blond hair—filled with irony—was tucked up underneath her white maid's cap. "It's a new brand—it's supposed to work twice as fast. Oh, and you had a message." Kiiro snapped her fingers, and another maid—a much older one—bustled in with a silver breakfast tray.

The Thursday maid placed the tray of food on Doumeki's lap, and then briskly made her way out. Kiiro turned the knob of Doumeki's closet—which was as large as the average civilian's bedroom—and began clawing her way through the jungle for a clean uniform.

Doumeki ignored the immaculate plates of eggs, mini donuts (dear God), and coffee—he frowned at the amount of the bean given to him; he'd need a lot more than that after the dream, and night he'd had. Besides, he was nearly filled with absolute certainty that the dream—the nightmare—had actually happened and his subconscious was just reliving the awfulness. He went straight to the baby envelope of stiff cream paper.

Written in his father's butler/secretary's calligraphy was:

_**Mr. Yuui Fluorite will be taking a personal day, and therefore, he has requested that you need not escort him to school this morning.**_

Well, that was dandy. Now Doumeki wouldn't even have someone to face the onslaught of questions and rumors and inquiries with. He'd have to take care of the buzz alone, and plush, he'd have to face Watanuki's questioning eyes and the team's rowdy congratulations.

Kiiro returned with Doumeki's soccer uniform in one hand and his school suit in the other. "So, do you have practice today, or is the little shit going to be drunk and bail on you again?" She slung the clothes over a chair, and sat on the side of his large, Victorian bed. Her wide grassy eyes looked at him in concern.

"Pack the soccer stuff like always," Doumeki said shortly—the way he said everything. Kiiro was the only person who really ever understood his unusual way of looking at things and responding. Aside from his late grandfather, and maybe Watanuki. But Watanuki never really talked to him or gave him the time of day anyhow.

Doumeki stopped Kiiro before she stood up. "Wait." He grasped her forearm tightly. Her eyebrows went up, and he pulled back his hand thoughtfully. "I'm not going to school."

"A personal day, huh?" She shrugged, "All right. It's not like you play hooky routinely every week or anything like that. Your parents aren't going to be back from Australia until next month, so I suppose it's fine. Get some rest, okay? And eat your breakfast for Christ's sakes. I'll bring up some Eki-Kyabe once you've got something in your stomach."

He nodded robotically and fell back into his pillows.

You don't look like you need a personal day, D. Or maybe you're finally taking Y's advice about how "absence makes the heart fonder" and decided to deprive W of your charming company? Either way, I doubt that what you're suffering from is anything physical—well, maybe one thing—but nothing that can't be fixed with a good, healthy tryst with Y. But what can't be fixed with a nice quickie is what you really are suffering from. And that, my darling, is a severe heartache.

Get well, soon!

* * *

Okay, so maybe Kamui wasn't the only outsider who knew about his and Fai's situation, and Kamui certainly wasn't the first. The first and other only—this time, for real—was Seishiro. After all, the Maestro was Yuui's mentor, and he'd been the first one to welcome them to Fuki when the Fluorite twins had first arrived.

Yuui's hangover had lasted all of one hour after he'd woken up and made sure that Fai was doing all right. He'd kissed his sleeping brother's lips, left a note at his bedside table, dressed, and then told his chauffeur to drive to the Sakurazuka household as fast as possible without exceeding the speed limit and getting a ticket billed to Kyle—not that Kyle couldn't afford it.

Seishiro was waiting in the house's sunroom—lying on his side on a light blue settee—a silver tea set on the wicker table, and he himself was wearing a silk bed robe, and from what Yuui could tell, the conductor probably wasn't wearing anything else. It didn't really get any part of Yuui excited—it didn't even really strike him as anything other than something that just _was_. Yuui had already had his fair share of schoolboy crushes on the Maestro in his freshman year, and he'd also already had his fair share of sleeping with Seishiro—four or five times during sophomore year. It'd been part of his mentoring, and one thing Yuui had learned was how to come up with one adjective for the way the people he slept with…well…did it.

It was kind of fun. Seishiro's adjective had been "controlled", which wasn't really too surprising considering that he was a conductor. Seishiro had led Yuui through the sex, and well…orchestrated the entire thing—every time, too.

Yuui saw Seishiro's eyes skim the sliver of skin that flashed because of the immensely low rise dark Levi's when the pianist leaned to sit down across the conductor. "Shouldn't you be in school?" Seishiro raised the china cup to his lips and nodded to an empty cup placed for Yuui.

The junior poured in the tea and watched his reflection in the clear, dark golden liquid. He thoughtfully stirred the drink with a chocolate-dipped orange rind from one of the many china towers on the table. "Shouldn't you be doing something productive rather than lounging around practically naked and having your maids put together elaborate tea parties?"

Seishiro laughed, putting his cup down, and sitting up—the sash slipped loose and Yuui admired the vastly exposed pale skin and gently muscled chest and stomach. "I'm on break. I'm allowed to do absolutely nothing and have my maids serve me whatever I crave. In any case, how's your lovely brother doing? He wasn't at the party last night."

"He was with Ashura."

The conductor's eyebrows arched high. "Still? But he's not…?"

Yuui shook his head. Seishiro furrowed his eyebrows, and smirked. "And yet Ou is still with him? What sort of relationship is that? Being together, supposedly loving each other, and yet not having sex? How is that even a relationship? Really."

"It's better than the half-life your relationship with Subaru has," Yuui retorted. "He's used up three-quarters of Kamui's stash in the six months you've been gone to Akamizu. What do you think he'll do through the next few years? He's even changed his mind about Kuriakiri. He wants to go to Akamizu for you. He worries himself sick over the fact that you don't love him anymore because you sleep around—that he's not satisfactory now that you're in the Holy Trinity—now that you're a Sacred."

Seishiro merely looked amused. "I see you've been talking with Kamui. How is he? I didn't have the chance to speak to him last night. I did, however, get to meet with Subaru…fortunately…and if you ask me, he seemed perfectly fine…with me and otherwise."

Yuui rolled his eyes and threw his head back in exasperation. "Of course he'd seem fine to you. You're the most self-absorbed prick I've ever known—and probably will ever know or hear of. You wouldn't even notice—let alone care—if he went along and shot himself in the head." He tilted his head to the side and leaned forward, across the table. "Do you even love him really?"

Seishiro leaned just as close and kissed the pianist slowly. "Of course I love him. I love you, too, don't I?"

Yuui drew back and collapsed himself into the sofa's pillows. "I know you love me. But that's not the kind of love Subaru has for you, and I don't think he wants you to love him like you love me." Seishiro's eyes narrowed in realization.

"Oh," the conductor said casually, taking another sip. "That. I don't believe in love like that. Or at least, I don't do it. One person? All the time? And only one person? What if you get bored? Then your lover would accuse you of cheating on them. What if you wanted to break up? Then drama and tears and troubles would begin. It's too…it's too chaotic. Subaru will get over it—you did, everyone did, all my students did."

"I had a crush on you for a month," Yuui said emphatically. "And that was before I knew you. Subaru's loved you for years. Don't you think…you could just give it a chance, maybe? You told him you love him before you left—"

Seishiro interrupted him with another kiss. "I told you I love you, too."

"Kiss me one more time and I'll hit you," Yuui warned. He took a sip of his tea and made a face at his ex-mentor. "And you didn't have to french me. Really, Seishiro."

The Maestro laughed. "I'll reserve that right for Shizuka Doumeki. He seemed to be very much into it last night. Even though you two were attempting to make someone jealous, right?"

"He's a freshman, and I'm Yuui Fluorite. Of course he'd want to ravish me on the kitchen floor. But he just needs a good substitute to have daily trysts with until he gets the person he really wants to realize that they should be together and so on and so forth." Yuui waved a hand carelessly. "You'll see Fai at the benefit, by the way. He'll want to talk to you, too."

"I look forward to it." Seishiro's eyes canvassed Yuui's body. "It's been a long time, you know…"

"No thanks," Yuui grinned. "I have to be 'monogamous' for at least until Doumeki gets his little boyfriend in bed. Besides, I thought you were a college man—someone who got bored easily of tweaked out high schoolers."

Yeah, babe, like anyone would pass _you_ up for some exam-exhausted university student.

Seishiro rested his cheek on the center of his palm. "You're different and you know it. The fact that you're in high school doesn't matter—and some times even appeals—to men and women any age sexually. Every time you move, every time you walk, and talk and laugh…it all just spills sex—and your appearance…your demeanor makes women want to treat you like a porcelain doll they can adore and it makes men want to protect you."

Yuui lowered his eyes. "I know. You taught both Fai and me that—that even though people say that appearance doesn't matter…it does. It's about the only thing that matters. If it weren't…maybe when we went to the police that time…they would've believed us and Fai wouldn't be…God." Yuui rubbed his eyes tiredly.

Seishiro's eyes softened. He stood up, one arm surreptitiously holding the silk from falling from his body, and bent down to touch his lips into Yuui's pale blond crown. "You asked me not to help, so I won't. But I'll still be ready to fire when you're ready to load the cannons."

Yuui snorted, smiling bitterly. "And I'll be ready to load the cannons whenever the general decides to give me the okay. I've already told you that it's not up to me—it's up to Fai, and from the way things look, he's never going to ask and would rather just be caged by Kyle until we turn eighteen."

"Then isn't your duty as his brother to do what's best for him—to do what he can't do himself—and take the initiative?" Seishiro challenged. "If Fai's not going to protect himself and keep himself from going to ruins, isn't it your job to do so? Instead of…just…waiting for Kyle to finish chewing him up and spitting him back out so that you can put back together whatever's left? If it were Fuuma—"

"But it's not," Yuui cut off shortly, his eyes narrowed to blue slits. "For one thing, Fuuma would rather eat all of his signed soccer balls then let someone fuck around with him. And for another, you would probably just interfere and save him so that you yourself wouldn't have to watch him get tortured every night—and day."

"So?" Seishiro shrugged. "I don't see how the reason behind the action matters in a situation like this. If you really love him then you'll give him the shove he needs—and if he still won't learn to fly, then you'll have to hook him to a parachute, push him off, and he'll just have to make do."

"And if I don't?"

Seishiro smiled. "That isn't love, is it? That's cowardice."

Yuui stared at him, and then stood up and walked out of the room. Seishiro vaguely heard the door bang, and the conductor smiled to himself, licking the rim of his cup.

The truth hurts, doesn't it, Y?

* * *

_A/N: The benefit is the next chapter, which now that the homework and school and stuff is calming down, will probably be ready and up soon. And another big reason that it'll be up quicker is because I finished watching and obsessing over the series Queer as Folk--having watched all 83 episodes in the span of a week on Youtube. And because it was such a phenomenal series, I have to tie it in to Intrigue, and it really helped come up with a good ending for Intrigue, too. If you like KuroFai for their shonen-ai sort of aspect, and their possible yaoi aspect, you'd love QAF. I wish I'd have been able to watch it when it was new to television, but I was seven when it first started, and I highly doubt the show was age-appropriate for me at the time. _

_Anyhoo, Reviews._


	12. Green

Chapter Eleven: Green

Watanuki was lost. He wasn't lost…direction wise, see—direction wise, he knew exactly where he was, even though he might not know exactly why he brought himself to the aforementioned place, the aforementioned place being the enormous sand yellow enlarged version of a cottage where the Doumeki family dwelled.

It wasn't like he didn't have anything better to do—he'd just returned from practice, and therefore, was dripping wet, still fresh from the showers, and tuckered out completely, since for the first time in about half a century Mioru actually deigned the team worthy of his great god of a self to show up and get something done.

Himawari had been the one who slammed the final verdict with her, "Oh, is Doumeki sick today? He seemed fine the last time I spoke to him. I heard he was at that party for the Maestro yesterday night. I hope he's all right. Do you think he's all right Watanuki? You're, like, his best friend! He tells you everything—and you're on the same team, too. You're practically brothers."

After her mini speech, he didn't really have the balls to tell her that he hated Doumeki with the deepest—or near the deepest—loathing, and that the striker annoyed the shit out of him, from his expressionless face to the way he stared at Watanuki when he shot the soccer ball at him. It was like Doumeki _wanted_ Watanuki to block every strike, and then he seemed to like it when Watanuki screamed about how getting the ball _past_ the goalie was the object of the fucking game.

Which was how he was suckered into visiting the bastard—really, it was unfair the kind of power women had, no matter how sweet and innocent; perhaps it was an involuntary thing? Or perhaps he just loved Himawari too much to deny her anything her good, pretty, little heart desired.

Yeah, that's it, W. We'll stick with that explanation.

But back to Watanuki's lost sense of direction—Watanuki wasn't literally lost. He was just lost as to why the hell Doumeki—someone like Doumeki—would choose to go out, and then blatantly announce it with the most socially shocking form of PDA, with someone like Yuui Fluorite. Gay, bi, or straight, Yuui Fluorite was synonymous with slut. Unlike his twin brother, Fai—who seemed more or less quiet and kind to Watanuki—Yuui was neither nice nor quiet. In fact, Yuui Fluorite was the most avid partier, and playboy. He womanized, he boy-anized, he drank like there was no tomorrow, he did enough drugs to have been sent to rehab, and he never did relationships.

In other words, Yuui Fluorite = trouble.

And as much as Watanuki despised Doumeki, he didn't want Himawari getting hurt when the stupid bastard was heartbroken—if that was possible—by the infamous Yuui Fluorite. Watanuki couldn't really use that as an arguing point, though…as he didn't actually have straight fact about Yuui Fluorite's excess and insane use of drugs and alcohol, but he'd heard good rumors and he was sure that Yuui was a slut.

Annoying prick or not, Doumeki deserved to be warned—as Watanuki's teammate. And plus, Watanuki had also felt a little—or very—lost as to why he felt pinpricks of heavy…irritation…or just…something in his stomach when he watched Doumeki and Yuui make-out and seeming begin to do the naughty at the Maestro's house party.

By the time Watanuki's train of thought had arrived at the station, Watanuki had arrived in the front of Doumeki's room after passing the interested eye of his rather pretty maid. He knocked once and waited.

When the door opened, the goalie wished he'd been able to wait a little longer to prepare his mind for some…thing like this. It really wasn't fair that…this situation had caught him unaware—really, truly, honestly unfair. This kind of situation should come with a warning signal of some type. Something that read…something that told you to fuck off for your own good.

Watanuki could feel his glasses fog up, as he took in all six feet and three inches of Doumeki's perfectly muscled, perfectly wired and tightened body—completely and utterly naked. Not to mention the rivulets of steaming water running down the planes of his face and shoulders and abs and legs and…unmentionable area…to the floor, soaking the plush yellow (what was with the color scheme?) carpet.

"What the hell's your problem?" Watanuki finally managed to strangle out—with as much dignity as he could muster in the allotted time that was given.

Doumeki, for once, showed a surprised expression—his eyebrows had disappeared into his slick wet bangs and he blinked more than one time. "My problem?"

"Put on some clothes for fuck's sake!"

"Oh. That." Watanuki busied himself with closing the door, attempting his best not to look at Doumeki even once as the striker turned to his bed and hiked up a pair of extremely loose and low mesh basketball shorts. Without underwear. Or a shirt. Dear God. "There." Doumeki said, "Clothes."

Watanuki folded his arms. "There was no point in getting over your hangover if you were just planning on getting a cold right after. Those aren't clothes—you might as well be a caveman, waving around your club and running around in a loincloth."

Doumeki shrugged yet again and went to lie spread-eagle on his bed. "Why'd you come? Bring me my homework?"

"I'm not in any of your classes," Watanuki said indignantly.

"Why'd you come?"

The goalie inhaled deeply and let the air out slowly through his teeth. He leaned against the wall, his palms curled halfway into fists. "I don't know." The room went quiet. Doumeki seemed to freeze more than Watanuki—he couldn't even hear the striker's breathing. "But," Watanuki looked up at Doumeki with narrowed eyes, "Since when did you date assholes like Yuui Fluorite—if you can call it dating?"

"Since now." Watanuki could read the slight triumph in Doumeki's eyes as easy as the goalie could read a book—it was strange exactly how simple it was for him to read Doumeki. He just didn't know how to find the reason for what he read—again, like a book the interpretation was done by the reader.

"He's a slut," Watanuki said shortly.

Doumeki lifted one of his shoulders in a shallow shrug, causing his muscles to ripple slightly and…impressively. How someone who only played soccer and had never been weight lifting—or other gym activities—had muscles like that was considered by Watanuki to be worthy as a wonder of the world. "He's hot, and he likes me."

"So that's it?" Watanuki was incredulous. "As long as the guy'll have you and he looks like a whore, you'll have him? What's your deal?"

"You're straight," Doumeki said expressionlessly. "You don't understand."

Watanuki chose to ignore that part. "You made-out with him and nearly did it in front of everyone at the Maestro's house party—in the Maestro's house—you did it in front of my _face_. And I don't know about you, but Fluorite has balls doing that—the _Maestro_ for God's sakes."

"Why would I want to put on a show for you?" Doumeki raised an emotionless eyebrow. "I don't know any reason. And the Maestro is Yuui's mentor—Yuui can do whatever and whoever the hell he wants to in the Maestro's house. 'Sides, he's Yuui fucking Fluorite—everyone was salivating when they thought we were about to do it."

All of this was said in a monotone—of course.

Well, how did you expect him to say it? It's fucking D, babe.

Watanuki bit his tongue. He knew that Doumeki had the right argument on hand and that he himself was just being unreasonable for unknown and unfathomable causes. He really, honestly, truly did not know why the hell he was blowing this out of proportion. Boys like Yuui Fluorite came from a whole other universe—one especially far away from where Watanuki originated from. Sure, they came from the same social circle and age group, and they'd been raised in the same exclusive preschool and J. Crew baby sweaters. But what regular civilians didn't know was that the high society world was split into its own social standings.

Guys like Yuui Fluorite—gay or straight—they were at the top. No one really worried that they wouldn't have a family or a business—most people just thought the whole gay thing was a phase, and if it wasn't, who was to discriminate? Most of the married socialites had affairs on the side—"business trips—and no one really charged against them, right?

Guys like Kimihiro Watanuki were somewhere around the middle—maybe even more towards the bottom half of the middle. Moreover, guys like Shizuka Doumeki were right below—just skimming underneath—the Fluorite and Sumeragi twins. And it wasn't that Watanuki wasn't good-looking enough or talented enough or rich enough to be at the top of the ladder.

It was just that Watanuki didn't have the nerve. The audacity.

All that sex—he didn't even want to consider when those boys had lost their virginity, front and/or back, whereas Watanuki hadn't even had so much as a blowjob yet—all those parties…all that alcohol…all those drugs…all that blatant exposure of their bodies…he could never amount or do the things they did. Maybe that was why Himawari always thought of him as her little "reliable friend". Never more than a friend.

So then why was he banging up on Doumeki for who he chose to date when the problems were Watanuki's own and had absolutely nothing to do with the striker? It was petty, it irritated Doumeki, and it caused nuisance to others. Watanuki didn't have any right to be lecturing Doumeki when he himself was always the first one to claim that he didn't care what happened to the striker.

Besides, Watanuki didn't have any business interfering with Doumeki's world. He didn't know how to play in that universe and therefore, he shouldn't be trying to assist in a game he didn't even know the rules of—a game where cheating was just another part of the objective and broken hearts and bodies and minds weren't even considered casualties…they just happened and no one thought anything of it because to them…it was just a game and they never played a game they wouldn't win.

And of course, it never crossed your mind that…gaspeth…the little green-eyed monster paid you a little visit, did it, W?

* * *

Dr. Kyle Rondart's summer benefit seemed to agree even with the weather—as the Saturday of the date was the sunniest day of the year, and the hottest so far. There was not a cloud in sight, and the tables, food, iced wine, pastries, waiters and waitresses were all set up in the back of the estate, facing the bushy forest trees.

Kyle was overseeing the last minute preparations when Yuui and Fai came down, dressed and ready. The sky was still light enough to be considered afternoon, but there were just the slightest tinges of evening beginning to arise and touch the sun. The doctor looked absentmindedly at the twins and smiled at them. Yuui felt his brother shiver closer.

"You both look magnificent," Kyle said, as he directed two of the waiters to move one of the glass tables closer to the center. "Fai, undo the first three buttons like Yuui did. You're going to a benefit, not a convent. And Yuui, I'd rather your tie not be long enough to tie around your leg and back—pull it up some, please."

The twins sighed and simultaneously turned to each other—Yuui deftly undid Fai's buttons, as Fai rose and tightened Yuui's white silk tie. Yuui could hear the soft rush of pause as the nearby waiters clanged the table loudly onto the stone patio. The pianist could practically hear Kyle roll his eyes. "For God's sakes, you two—some professionalism would help. And I heard _you_ were married—I don't think you're wife would like it if she knew you were ogling a pair of underage boys."

The waiters mumbled hasty—and slightly panicked—apologies. As soon as they—and the rest of the hands—had bowed out of sight, Kyle smirked and turned to face the twins. He caressed Fai's cheek with the tips of his fingers and sighed. "Really. What _am_ I going to do with you two? I'm tempted to keep you locked up in the house."

"Then why don't you?" Fai smiled prettily. Yuui's face matched his brother's—frozen to identical perfection as Kyle leaned in to inhale the crooks of their necks.

Kyle tipped his head obviously. "Clearly, because there wouldn't be a point in having the cream of the crop if nobody knows it—if nobody can want it, and know they can't have it because I do. A lesson, boys: Something is only worth having when nobody else does."

"The green-eyed monster, is it?" Yuui said dryly.

"Precisely." Kyle tapped his custom-made fountain pen on the top edge of his clipboard. "Now, I think all the preparations are set, and if you two will excuse me, I need to get dressed." He cast a smile over them—his eyes remained hard. "And this is a white party—meaning that I don't want to hear or see a single ounce of color on those clothes, although it's not like you'll ever wear them again." It seemed like Kyle's accusing gaze was mostly centered at Yuui—Fai couldn't do anything that would stain his clothes.

As soon as Kyle had gone into the house, Fai began walking through the furniture, surreptitiously touching surfaces every so often. "What are you doing?" Yuui laughed, watching his twin glance straight up at the dimming sun. He crossed over and half-tackled his brother from the side.

Fai fell into the table lightly—he smiled. "Nothing. Just imagining how many people Kyle invited. You'd think he'd invite a ton of people, but he's surprisingly finicky about who he wants to come. And most of them usually come with their kids or send them in their stead."

"Right, the 'kids' who're our age, and some of them older. Ashura's coming, isn't he? And of course there's Seishiro—he wants to talk to you, by the way—and Fuuma, Kamui, Subaru, the Kinomoto siblings, those two Daidoji bitches, the blond dancer with glasses—Tsukishiro, I think—the Li twins, one of them just got out of rehab—again—and of course, Mioru Aoi."

"Mioru Aoi?" Fai frowned, and raised his eyebrows. "Who's that?"

Yuui rolled his eyes. "Some little sophomore twat who thinks he's the greatest crap that was ever bestowed on this earth—in other words, he's the little girl playing dress-up in mommy's clothes, and they're too big for him, and they always will be."

"Let me guess," Fai laughed, exasperatedly. "You're the mommy."

Yuui matched his laugh and swung his arm around his other half's shoulders. "Nope. We are. And there's only one pair of Fluorite twins, and they'll always will be. Besides, I heard that that Aoi kid has a new boy toy or slut every, like, week. But apparently, this one's 'special'." Yuui made mock air quotes.

The pianist shrugged. "Doesn't matter really." He leaned back against one of the antique white tables and smiled saintly. "A party isn't a party unless there's an after party. It just so happens that Seishiro rented out Red Dawn for the night. Everyone's going after the white party's over. You are, too, right? You and Ashura will ride with me and Seishiro?"

Fai smiled. "Sure. And I thought you were going with that Doumeki kid."

"He'll meet us at the club. Seishiro said he had something important to tell Ashura and that we should be there—apparently, it's confidential information that shouldn't be disclosed to anyone except the subjects that it mentions." Yuui wagged his eyebrows suggestively.

The violinist looked amused. "Is it about us?"

"No."

"Then why do we get to know?" Fai's voice belied that he very well already knew the answer…rather he was just teasing back his twin—as all siblings did.

Yuui pushed Fai again and kissed him briskly on the lips. "We're Yuui and Fai fucking Fluorite. It'd be an insult to humankind not to let us know anything and everything we want to. And I thought the older brother was supposed to be the _smarter_ one."

Fai just laughed.

* * *

_A/N: I think I said that the benefit would be this chapter, but the story wouldn't get 'round to it...So it'll definitely, hopefully be next chapter. Which reminds me that we haven't heard about T and Y II's exploits for a long time...but we will next time. I'm starting to sound like a drama channel announcer......anyhoo........_

_Reviews (Everyone already knows the drill so well, I'm probably being redundant by doing that every time........0_0)_


	13. Honored

Chapter Twelve: Honored

Fuuma bounced the soccer ball on his knees as best he could with the constricting linen uniform pants, and grinned to himself as he watched safely partially hidden by one of the large, marble columns that lined the patios surrounding Fuki's courtyard. This was mainly one of his usual spots for the period after lunch "during which students of all four preparatory schools may engage in social activities".

Very social, indeed. I'm sure Y and D could tell us exactly how social.

Although, Fuuma wasn't sure that what he was doing would be considered a social activity that the teachers on the administrative board would approve of—after all, once one got right down to it, what Fuuma did was more or less stalking. Not that he really gave a shit.

The thing was, every school day around fifteen minutes after lunch, or before lunch, Kamui Sumeragi came out with his little black composition notebook, sat primly on the third circular stone table to the left of the east patio strip, and began to write. Occasionally, he would look up and talk with his twin, who usually walked by at least twice. Sometimes Kamui would have one of the Fluorite twins by his side while he did his daily writing. And what creeped—and yet excited—Fuuma even more was that sometimes…sometimes Kamui stared _right at him_. As in, directly at him. As though the journalist knew that Fuuma was there and how he watched every day.

What disturbed him a bit more was how certain—ahem—parts of his body reacted whenever Kamui began one of their mini and absolutely, positively discreet staring contests. But, Kamui didn't look searching, or thoughtful, or aroused, or irritated, or happy—he didn't even look the least bit peeved whenever he looked at Fuuma. No…the junior looked like he was studying something.

And of course, Fuuma never seemed to get over the thrill of being peered at by those eyes—Kamui's eyes were a strange thing; they were a clear blue-gray, so clear that you practically expected to be able to see right through into his mind, but that could only happen in Fuuma's wildest and most desperate dreams, but they always exuded something that made you remember them as pitch midnight black.

Yeah, F II. Weird.

It never struck Fuuma as weird that he never actually went up to Kamui and talked to him. Kamui just never really registered in Fuuma's mind as a person—just another person his own age from a neighboring school that he could talk with, and laugh with, and be friends with, and kiss, and fuck with.

Most likely, it had something to do with the fact that his older brother was screwing around—in more ways that one—with Kamui's twin brother. Then again, this was just a hunch that Fuuma had.

Oh, sure, that won't make it awkward at all. Just think of the foursome possibilities. If…y'know, you don't mind doing it with your own brother. But really, you're all so hot, and you've all done half the town's population, it probably won't even register—I mean, pshaw.

Fuuma in no way approved of what Seishiro was doing to Subaru, but the soccer player also couldn't exactly sympathize with Subaru, as the trumpeter knew very well—and Fuuma knew he did—the kind of person Seishiro was and the lengths Seishiro would go in order to obtain whatever he might fancy that small, volatile moment. And if it just so happened that Seishiro wanted to have the best fucking time of his life—literally—during his freshman year at Akamizu, then the Maestro would do so, everyone else be damned.

There was no doubt in Fuuma's mind that Seishiro loved Subaru, because Fuuma's brother loved everyone—in different ways. For example—and just to list a few: Seishiro loved Fuuma like a brother (duh), he loved Yuui Fluorite as a student, a friend, and an occasional sex buddy, he loved Fai Fluorite as one would love a pretty, fragile….thing, and he hated to love Subaru.

The reason, Fuuma suspected, that Seishiro hated so much to love Subaru was that Seishiro couldn't stand that there was actually a person now in existence and within a 500 mile radius that could possibly forever alter the way of life—fuck without commitment, in other words—as he knew it.

But, either way, Fuuma didn't really care, as it didn't really involve him. Even if they were brothers—shared blood—and lived in the same house (unless, obviously, when Seishiro was away at college) they didn't really talk all that much; they understood each other and all, but they didn't really infuse each others personal lives. It wasn't as if there was much to infuse, anyway.

"Do you have a pen?"

Fuuma's head snapped up—it snapped up so suddenly, that he heard a tiny crack in his neck, and tried his best to ignore the immediate sharp pain that followed. He stared at the speaker. The large almost baby-like eyes were staring down at him with feigned childish curiosity. That was the thing, even though everything about the Fluorite twins said _softangelbabydarlingfragile_, and the Sumeragi twins were of the same sort only darker…Kamui and Subaru were the ones whose faces just made you think of little babies.

Kamui especially, but Fuuma believed it was more because Kamui was shrewd enough to know this himself—being a writer and all—and knew how to use it and twist it to his advantage. Yet another reason why Fuuma never had talked to Kamui—the writer was much too dangerous.

"No?" Fuuma swallowed. It was like Kamui's presence was pressing him down and then slowly gulping him down. If he didn't either get away, or get his shit together, he would end up looking like a brainless jock in front of the person who held the most contempt against the Maikeru students.

Kamui blinked his large eyes—deer eyes, kind of—and tilted his head. His black hair—messier than his twin's, probably another writer's quirk—fell to the side that he leaned to. "You don't? I thought you might. You kept staring at me when I broke my pen, so I thought maybe you wanted to help."

"Oh." Somewhere during that statement, Fuuma felt himself regain his balls. He swaggered into a grin. "Well, if you noticed me staring, then you would've been staring yourself. All I've got is a soccer ball. After all, I'm just another stupid jock, right? Unworthy for a Fuki student like yourself, oh-great-Kamui Sumeragi."

Kamui's eyes widened just a bit, and then his entire face matched Fuuma's own slight smirk. "You know my name. Should I be flattered?"

"I'm the Maestro's li'l bro, y'know. I get around."

"I know. I know exactly everything about the Maestro." The journalist's eyebrows went high into his bangs. His smirk faded gradually into a signature sort of expression—one that everyone had that was all his or her own. And the kind Kamui had was the sort that intrigued. "Your brother and mine? Not going well these days, is it…now…"

Fuuma shrugged. "What my brother does with anyone is none of my business—just like what your brother does shouldn't be any of yours. We're all big boys 'round here. We can take care of ourselves."

That, apparently, was the devastatingly wrong thing to say.

Kamui's precious eyes—like the most enormous, alluring jewels Fuuma had ever seen—narrowed into slits that the soccer player thought were quiet hideous compared to what they'd been before. "I suppose you wouldn't care to involve yourself. I mean, your brother isn't on the fucked-up end of the stick. He's the one that gets to fuck around. Subaru's the one having to deal."

"Well then, why doesn't he just not stay and put up with it?" Fuuma asked coolly—contrary to what it might seem like, Fuuma didn't get all raging and roaring like typical jocks on his team when he was angry. He went the opposite direction, and somehow, his instinct made him dangerous and frighteningly calm.

Kamui snorted with a shake of his head. "Just like the Maestro. Why did I expect anything different?"

Most people—people who got louder and more chaotic as they got angrier, which was normal—thought that being able to instinctively stay calm and cool as dry ice the angrier you got was a gift. Fuuma knew that this was about as true as the fact that Seishiro would someday take a lovely young girl as his wife and live forever and happily with her in little cottage out in the countryside with their two little boys.

It wasn't that getting calmer the madder you got was any worse than raging and roving—but it certainly wasn't any better. In Fuuma's case, it sort of acted as an automatic pill—it made him absolutely not care about what was happening. Later on, Fuuma would realize that his kind of anger was easier to control, but at this moment, he just couldn't find it in himself to care about the fact that Kamui fucking Sumeragi was walking away from him.

Because he was too angry.

It wasn't until the next day when Kamui didn't appear at the usual spot—or any spot, since Fuuma asked around urgently for about the rest of the free period—that Fuuma realized how deep in shit he really was, and how being screwed around with really wasn't funny _at all_. He was starting to sympathize a little with Subaru.

Especially when Kamui never showed up again.

* * *

All of that happened a month ago.

Fuuma stepped out of the sleek Lincoln Town car and adjusted his custom made white Hugo Boss. He craned his neck as if he would somehow be able to see around the gianormous white estate to the back where he knew Kyle Rondart's white party was occurring. His brother smoothly appeared beside him after coming out of the car himself. Seishiro smiled. "He's here, isn't he?"

"He's got to be," Fuuma said.

"Are you planning to speak with him?"

"Whether he likes it or not."

"I've never been so proud of you as a brother." Seishiro's smile widened into a full-blown grin. "But remember, even though they might not seem like it at times—and even though Kamui is the dominant twin—the Sumeragi brothers are just as delicate as the Fluorites. Be careful…oh, and be safe."

Fuuma grinned disgustedly. "What makes you think I'll be needing a rubber tonight?"

Seishiro snorted. "I know you will." He clapped Fuuma on the back. "So go out there and make me proud enough to burst. Just…be sure it isn't during the actual white party. There will be plenty of private rooms at the club. Try to hold it in."

"Hope I don't fucking rape him."

"You'd better not. He's a writer—he'll carry the case until Dad grounds you for the next four decades."

Fuuma glanced at his brother. "You'd get yourself grounded for sexual assault before I ever will."

Seishiro smiled complacently. "Really? And how would I ever do that?"

Fuuma simply shook his head to himself, but the slight grin never left his lips.

* * *

Touya sighed into his drink—a simple lemonade with absolutely no alcohol whatsoever. He hated white parties. All the white sort of blinded him, and there were adults present, which outlawed any drinking or drugs. And it certainly outlawed dancing and sex. Basically, the only thing he was allowed to do was chat quietly about his career plans for his aspiring future. He wasn't even allowed to scowl, and that was just plain injustice.

He was, however, more than allowed to stare at the back of Yukito Tsukishiro, and maybe even the side when the subject of his attention wasn't looking his way. And when his sister and others who knew of their couple-ship weren't looking, either. But then again, from the way things were going, Sakura looked extremely occupied and it wasn't with Yukito.

Sakura had found a new friend, apparently.

And Touya was less than happy.

Touya had never been jealous or really had any particular feelings at all about the peculiar—in other words, completely freaky—way that his sister could somehow meet someone for the first time and become bestest friends ever for all eternity with them the next moment. But he did occasionally frown upon that fact depending on who the new BFF was, and this was definitely one of those occasions.

Sakura had befriended Fuuka Li. This, in the case it wasn't already painfully obvious, was extremely not good—bad.

For one thing, if Touya had known that Syaoran was even going to bring his nutcase of a twin to the party, he would have told his father and therefore somehow gotten Sakura forbidden from the party, grounded, or at least banned from speaking to the druggie bastard. Not that one would've been able to tell just from looking that Fuuka had been in extensive rehab somewhere in Italy for the past three years.

Fuuka looked more or less normal—apart from the remaining shadows beneath his eyes and the slight hollowness of his cheeks. He smiled and laughed and flirted as briskly as any of his peers, even if the way he moved and held himself emanated a kind of weariness.

Still, in Touya's opinion, Sakura shouldn't just gush and giggle with her new BFF, while Yukito simply stood at her side and followed her silently. Touya willed the dancer's syrupy gold eyes to at least glance in his direction, but it was clear that Yukito still thought Touya hated him and deemed him unworthy of dating his sister. Which was only half true.

Touya did not hate him—as much as he sometimes wished he could—and the only reason he deemed Yukito unworthy of dating his sister was probably because he'd much rather Yukito date Touya himself.

And that definitely gave Touya the Worst Brother of Ever award.

Uh, no. I can think of a few others who should definitely at least be nominated for that one. Can you?

* * *

Mioru looked around and restrained the unbearable urge to roll his eyes. Rondart sure as hell seemed to have made absolutely sure that none of the horny young socialites that'd been forced to attend by their suffocating parents were able to get any. At all. There were no corners, no trees, no shrubs, nothing to provide a sufficient hiding place to get blowed—or to blow.

Which was a shame indeed, since Kurogane gave a fucking amazing head.

Kurogane was standing as close to Mioru as was possible without any of the surrounding adults—milling about and chatting breezily with each other about business, social events, and their heirs (and of course, rumors)—gazing at them with suspicion. Mioru's eyes drifted to the martial artist's profile, and he smiled. "You're going to the after party, right?"

"Yeah." Kurogane chugged down half of his measly lemonade.

Mioru made a face. "Don't drink that. It's for five-year-olds. I bet it isn't even spiked. I can't believe they won't let us have any fucking alcohol. Did you sneak any in?"

Kurogane dug a small phial out of the back pocket of his white linen pants and brush passed it into Mioru's bronzed palm. "Straight vodka. If you get too high on this stuff, you're the one who snuck it in and I'm the hapless bystander, got it?"

The soccer captain grinned. "Crystal clear." And with that, he simply tipped all of the contents directly into his lemonade. He shook the glass a few times and peered at the yellow liquid mesmerized. Kurogane smirked. Mioru's grin widened as he wagged his eyebrows at Kurogane and then downed all of the contents.

"Feel better?" Kurogane snorted, holding up his own sadly non-alcoholic beverage at eyelevel and scowling fiercely at it, as though it'd done him some great personal wrong.

"I will," Mioru said simply. "I always do." But even considering the suggestiveness in his tone, it wasn't Kurogane he was looking at. No. The golden flecks in Mioru's eyes were aimed sharply at a pale boy, made even paler in the contrast of his midnight hair—ruffled and tousled and undeniably thick and baby soft.

Mioru had seen this boy before—he was a junior, Mioru knew that much. And he probably went to Fuki—there was no way the boy could possibly be an athlete. The boy's clear blue gray eyes turned toward Mioru almost the instant Mioru himself looked at the boy. The boy was talking with…Fuuma. Huh. That was strange.

Fortunately for Mioru, although it looked like Fuuma was making a noble effort, the boy didn't seem too happy with him. At the end of the white party, right before it was time for the young socialites to load themselves into the parade of Town cars, Mioru would be sure to invite the boy to ride with him. In more ways than one.

And, of course, it doesn't even matter that K-pii is standing right next to you, all hot and bothered, does it, M? But, y'know, then again, this is the way of the socialite. We do love to socialize.

* * *

The white party had been absolutely stifling. Yuui stepped easily into the sleek black Town car and the chauffeur snapped the door shut. The back had been tempered so that the seats were in a circle—similar to a limousine. Seishiro, Ashura, and Fai were riding in the car, as well. Yuui pulled off his tie completely and unbuttoned his shirt until only four buttons were left. He slid his belt out and made sure that his pants were at least a centimeter below his hips.

Fai just leaned against Ashura and inhaled deeply—his exhale coming out in a relaxed sigh. Ashura's arm went over and around the violinist. Seishiro smiled a knowing smile—that annoyed the shit out of Yuui—and looked between the exchanges amusedly. He instructed the chauffeur to drive on to Red Dawn.

"So," Yuui said. "After that amazingly exciting party, I don't even know the definition of adrenaline—let alone high. Seishiro, have you got any? Kyle wouldn't let any in the house, even."

Seishiro handed him a joint and a silver Zippo. As soon as Yuui lighted and began filling the enclosed space with smoke, Ashura spoke. "Maestro, what did you have to tell me? You said it was classified." Ashura smiled. "I suppose it most likely has something to do with my upcoming graduation. I've got into Akamizu, I know."

"Of course you have." Seishiro shrugged, "You were one of mine, weren't you? And yes, since it's classified, what I tell you doesn't leave this…car. If anyone else knew about this—other than another party, which might potentially be involved—I'd be dead. Socially."

"On with it, then," Fai smiled.

"Karen Kasumi—the Akamizu actress," Seishiro said, with a smile as the eyes of his ex-pupils widened at the realization of the name, "will be graduating this year. She's a Sacred—one of my fellow Sacreds. And when she leaves, there will be an opening for a new Sacred. And guess whom she has chosen?"

"Karen?" Ashura grinned, disbelievingly—the twins were still silent. "Really. She chose me—actually did. I know that she knows me…but I didn't know she took that much of a liking. I drew her once, after all."

"She adores you," Seishiro emphasized, with a raised eyebrow. "She still has the portrait you gave her on her bedroom wall—right above her bed. Not," he grinned again, "That I would know from any firsthand experience. But, moving on—"

"Wait," Fai said sharply—his smile widened gently; a contrast of actions. "Don't you have to complete some sort of…task to get in? Something that seals the deal only when the one who chooses you approves? And—"

"—Doesn't it have to be kept absolutely secret between the ones that absolutely only have to know and can never be mentioned again?" Yuui finished, his eyes narrowing identically and simultaneously with Fai's.

Seishiro leaned his head against the window and smiled. "Usually, the one leaving the Holy Trinity already has a task at hand for the chosen one to complete. But there have been times where the one leaving lets the chosen one to decide his or her task by his or herself. In my opinion, that's a task in on itself. But Karen has been kind enough to select a task for you."

Ashura folded his arms, sitting up straighter. "What is it? When do I find out?"

The Maestro whipped out a thick cream envelope—the kind of envelope you'd expect to find sitting on a wooden table in the 1700s. He placed it on Ashura's knee. "I'm under strict instructions to burn it as soon as you've read it once and understand the contents. No one else may read it."

"Is one allowed to decline?" Fai asked as Ashura was opening the envelope. "If the task is…too great for them—in their opinion—or if they just don't want to be in the Holy Trinity"—Yuui snorted—"what do you have to do to decline and what exactly happens when you do?"

"First," Seishiro took the joint right out of Yuui's lips and placed it between his own. "You'd have to be an utter lunatic who is completely not in his or her right mind to turn down a selection purely from the fact that you do not _want_ to be part of the Holy Trinity. But it isn't rare at all that the task proves to…difficult, and if the chooser is lenient they'll provide a less extreme alternate task. If no, then the chooser has to choose someone else. And if the chooser had left the task in the hands of the candidate in the first place, and the task was sufficient enough, then the chooser will have to find someone else too."

Yuui reached over Seishiro's lap, arching his back teasingly around the Maestro's crotch, as the pianist reclaimed his joint. "Here that, Fai? Maybe we'll be lucky enough—_fortunate and talented and gifted enough_—to be chosen to get into the Holy Trinity. Just maybe." He grinned, and Fai's eyebrows shot up, amused.

"You two might as well already be in," Seishiro said sarcastically. "For one, I know that at least three graduates will choose you, Fai. And for another, everyone knows that Yuui Fluorite is even able to jump from a roof and live if he wanted, and had to do it in order to get what he wants."

"No I'm not," Yuui blew smoke toward Seishiro's face. "Yet."

"Ashura?" Fai glanced at the artist. "Are you done reading?"

Ashura put down the letter. His face was frozen. He replaced it into the envelope and handed it to Seishiro. After a long moment, he was smiling and his expression was as easy as if nothing had happened. Yuui looked at him expectantly, along with Fai. Ashura gazed squarely at Seishiro, matching smiles, and said, "I'm sorry, but please tell Karen that I decline."

Fai's eyes looked Ashura's face up and down disbelievingly. "You…decline? What's the task? What could possibly—"

"—Be that fucking hard?" Yuui's tone was angrier than Fai's.

Seishiro shrugged, twirling the opened envelope in his hands. "I myself don't even know the task. I should probably burn this before I'm tempted." He took the Zippo and ignited the paper. Once it was burned into a little corner, he doused it with the water bottle at the side of the car. He moved his legs slightly to allow the water out. "Now," he turned back to Ashura, as the twins had taken on their identical ghostly stares. "Tell me how difficult the task is that a student of mine won't be joining the Trinity?"

"Not difficult," Ashura said pleasantly—but Yuui knew, and he knew that Fai knew (because it was a special talent of their own) that it was a pleasantness that served only to hide indescribable rage, depression, sadness, misery, irritation and/or extreme arousal.

"Then what?"

"Just…morally impossible."

Let's go with the last one, huh, Y?

The Maestro looked at Ashura with eyebrows so high, it was difficult where to discern their exact location in the midst of the conductor's dark bangs. Seishiro laughed once, sarcastically. Fai broke into a smile that Yuui recognized as the same as Ashura's previous one—that special talent—and this one was to hide a sort of rage would be the pianist's best guess. Yuui himself simply settled for blinking a few times at Ashura. "Morals?" Seishiro laughed again, humorlessly. "Morals are lovely, but one thing I _know_ I taught you is that when you want something: you _have_ none."

"How do _you_ know? How do you know that I even want it?" Ashura's face was as expressionless as Fai and Yuui's now. The artist looked extremely pissed, and Yuui knew that the only reason he hadn't went on a complete outrage was that Seishiro was the only person who could match such an outrage.

And everyone—in his or her sane mind—feared the Maestro.

Except maybe a certain baby S…

"Because I was your mentor," Seishiro said simply, as if stating that clouds were consisted of condensed water vapor. "I know you, and I can see it in your eyes as easily as I can see the color of your hair. You want it and I know you do. And…" The Maestro smiled. "I can also see that even though you might not want to admit it…you want to complete the task. Part of you inside is scoffing that the task is so easy…even…maybe…enjoyable?"

Any less of a man, and Seishiro would've been completely annihilated.

But the Maestro was the Maestro, and he went on speaking as though Ashura wasn't attempting to murder him through his eyes. "The point is…because of who you are…being chosen isn't an honor—it's an expectation. I've taught you to know exactly how good you are at what you do—I've taught you to know exactly what you're worth, and from that, I know that you yourself expect to be chosen and inducted into the Trinity—as a Sacred. If you treat it like an honor, then you aren't worthy of the honor." Seishiro's eyes widened gently and his mouth twisted into a frightening smile that served as a reminder of who precisely the Maestro was—the one who conducted not only pieces written by composers of another time, but the one who conducted _everything_. He waved his baton and you did as he said. "_You_ are Ashura Ou. Will you really not complete the task? Let _morals_ stop you from what you want?"

Yuui could tell that Ashura's mind was racing through the words he'd read from the stiff elegant paper. But what scared the pianist shitless was the fact that Ashura was looking at _him_ throughout remembering the task, and deciding if it was truly worth it or not.

As Yuui recalled to himself the type of person Karen Kasumi was and what was so ugly a task that Ashura would stop in the name of something as trivial as morals—really for God's sakes, they'd all lost their virginity in eighth grade at the latest (save for Fai)—all he could do was keep his suspicion to himself and swallow.

_Shit._

See, children? As the Maestro said, morals are lovely when you're still memorizing the art of Duck, Duck Goose. But once you get out there on the blacktop with the big kids…I suggest you lose the lovely morals.

And fast, too.

Otherwise, oh I don't know, you might end up in shit as deep as Y.

Only unlike him, you won't be able to get out of it.

And just so you know, the Maestro is such a fabulous guru because he was taught by the most bWitching person you could ever meet. And he does have a talent for memorizing quotes. It's true, you know. Even though you should never make yourself more than you are, you should never sell yourself short either. Know who you are.

And expect. Because you're only unworthy of an honor, if you believe it's an honor.

I told you. Only big kids from now on.

Sorry, babes.

* * *

_A/N: This one was a long one. It's one of the rare chapters that have content that I looked so forward to write so it was done reallysuperduperty fast. And plus, we haven't had much homework--aside from wicked, wicked Algebra. I like Algebra (bet that's a first) but it takes a long time. We're doing the evil polynomials, nowadays. Bet everyone can empathize, if not sympathize. Oh, and tomorrow I'm going on my Confirmation Retreat. All day in a building full of monastic nuns--fun. At least it's better than classes. I'll probably be able to write even more because of the President's Day weekend. _

_I'll also be taking guesses as to what Ashura's task is. Oh, and I've only ever read TRC. I haven't read CCS or X/1999 or any other of CLAMP's work that features like Kamui, and Fuuma and all those others, so if my characterization is weird, I'm only able to characterize to what I've seen in TRC. So, yeah. _

_Since it's a supertyduperty long chapter.......maybe long reviews....too?_

_(One more thing: my science fair project is done, but now it's my first thesis--oh joy, right?)_


	14. Chosen

Chapter Thirteen: Chosen

So.

How're we all doing so far? Good? Bad? Traumatized? Probably, if anything, y'all just love the crew more than you already did. After all, they're the ones you love to hate, and the ones you hate to love. But, y'know, that's life, isn't it?

Anyway. Moving on.

I thought I'd do a little…explanation on this Holy Trinity thing we've got going on. You see, it might seem—and in a way, it's similar—like it's a kind of sorority/fraternity, deal. Only, easier to get into without all the weird pledges and rings and other ridiculous crap.

In short, this is how it works:

First, let's go over the prerequisites.

You've got to have a reputation. And I don't mean a reputation, as in, one the national spelling bee or even the worldwide spelling bee. I mean, even if—for example—Madame A was already known worldwide for being a brilliant cellist, it wouldn't even matter if she weren't known for her and Lovely T's steel cage grudge catfights. The kids who get chosen aren't famous—or rather just famous—they're _infamous_. They're the kids that are angels when you ask a teacher or parent's opinion, and are positively Satan's spawn when you ask anyone else.

You've got to be hot. This kind of alludes to the first prerequisite. I mean, no one is going to care—I don't care what they tell you in nursery school—what you do if you don't look fucking amazing while you do it. You can't become a cavorting boy-slut like Y if you aren't as hot as him. And that's what Y's infamous for. See?

You've got to be fucking brilliant. Smart. Intelligent. Grades somewhere in the stratosphere. And I don't mean just A's and B's, or even straight A pluses. I mean, you're the kind of student that teacher's adore—that teacher's would beg just to keep you in their class for another hour or year.

You've got to be talented. Majorly. You have to have something you love to do, something you're good at, and something that you know you're good at. You can't have any of those three—you have to have all three. I don't care if you love it, but you aren't good at it. I don't care if you're good, but you don't know it. And I'll hit you with a pool stick if you know you're good but you're actually shit.

Sex. This one explains itself. It kinda goes back to all of the above. The kids who're chosen for the Holy Trinity have all the prerequisites above, but they overall—they don't spill sex, or revel in it, or emanate it—must have one more vital thing. One thing they must have absolutely: They _are_ sex. This is the toughest prerequisite because it's something you're born with. Examples? Plenty:

The way Y has that everyone-wants-me-and-I-know-they-do attitude makes you want to prove him right again, and again, and again, and again, and again…and…again…

Because confidence is sex.

The way F has that signature artificial smile and those eyes make you want to find out why those eyes are so pained, and why he can smile—it's the mysterious tragic past allure that makes you want to make his hurt go away and then fuck him till dawn.

Because mystery is sex.

The way that M can utterly not give a crap about what everyone who cares about him thinks is best for him, and the way he just screws with everyone's mind—and just screws everyone—and does it all without a single thought, while, y'know, simultaneously doing drugs, and alcohol, and partying from sunset till sunrise.

Because bad boys are sex.

The way that deary K has that inborn appearance of total innocence—the baby eyes, the soft thick hair, the infant lips—and yet, his aura, the way he walks and acts and speaks, everything he does emanates a sharp sense…cleverness and wit…a sense that he knows how to seduce. About as innocent as a murderer.

Because seduction—obviously—is sex.

And those are only to name a few.

Now, once the soon-to-be Holy Trinity alumni have those prerequisites in mind—as if they could forget, those five are all that matter in our world—they're given a list of the soon-to-be Akamizu, Kuriakiri, and Sabakurein students. The soon-to-be Sacreds alumni will get the Akamizu list, the soon-to-be Divines alumni will get the Kuriakiri list, and the same goes for the Sabakurein Angels.

After the prerequisites and the list are gotten through with, really, it's just up to the person. They'll choose whoever they've taken a liking to. There are just a few rules to that. For one, you absolutely cannot choose anyone you are currently in a relationship with, or anyone you are currently fucking. For another, you can't choose a family member or a close friend. And for another, you can't choose because of bribes.

If any of those rules are broken, you'll die a social death.

And yes, I am the executor.

Just kidding. I think.

Now, for my favorite part: The Tasks.

Tasks exist to prove that the nominee's reputation isn't just…well…a reputation. Tasks exist to prove that the nominee didn't purposely write out his or her reputation and send it to the entire population of ever to gain infamousness. Tasks are to prove that their reputation is just something that was gained. And that they can live up to it.

The nominator has two choices: 1) They can either leave the task up to the nominee, meaning the nominee needs to come up with a task that will sufficiently impress the nominator, or 2) the nominator can choose a task for his or her nominee.

These Tasks have three rules that must be obeyed down to every comma, quotation, period, and semicolon:

Other than the nominee, the nominator, and the subjects that are involved, absolutely no one else—not another living soul (and to socialites, if you don't have a trust fund that's large enough to buy at least four islands waiting for you, you're considered to neither be living nor a soul)—is allowed to know. If anyone does find out, the nominee will be aborted, die a social death, and the nominator will just have to suck it up and find someone else.

Even if the task is needed to involve the public—i.e., streaking, public sex, public oral sex, public defacement of property by sexual means—it cannot be out of character for the nominee as to prevent the public from suspecting that it was the nominee's task.

No boundaries are set—tasks can be as pleasurable and simple as screwing your mother's divorce attorney into a wall, or as dangerous and life threatening as smoking ten pounds of weed in one hour.

So, basically, once all of that fun-fun-fun stuff is completed…

You're in.

And once the world knows…

They'll never forget.


	15. Busy

Chapter Fourteen: Busy

Ashura stepped through Butter's doors, not even glancing once around at the intimidating modern arches—mismatched artfully overhead. His eyes skipped the huge, and at the same time sparse, floral life and went straight for the slender figure—clearly female—the only occupant in the entire restaurant, as no one would be up this early on a Sunday. Especially with Dr. Kyle Rondart's white party the night before. Or rather, the Maestro's after party.

No one who could call themselves a real socialite of this generation wouldn't be able to recognize the full head of auburn curls, spilling out onto perfectly curved shoulders—thinly covered with a dark Kate Spade sweater. The neckline dipped low enough so that were Ashura straight and in his right mind, he should have been foaming at the mouth.

He took the seat opposite Karen Kasumi in the reserved booth and looked at the face that was more iconic than even the Maestro's. When anyone—anyone in the nation—thought of socialite royalty, the Kasumi heir instantly had to appear into your mind. She raked a hand through her hair, finding a resilient curl and began twirling it around her finger. "Good morning."

The artist smiled like the true gentleman everyone thought he supposedly was. "I wish it could be. Why did you call me out? To have me thank you for nominating me and then giving me a task you knew I can't complete?"

"Seishiro called me about that," she said casually. "I don't see how the task I appointed you was so difficult. Most people would have already done it because it's that easy."

"Physically, it's simpler than breathing," Ashura agreed, his eyes darkening. "But in reality…Karen…why did you do it anyway? You _know_—"

"I _know_ that you love that boy." She arched her eyebrows appraisingly, "That. Is all I know. I know nothing else—absolutely nothing. All I know is that even though you love that boy to death…for some reason that you don't know yourself…you won't have sex with him. Even though now as we sit, you're thinking of screwing him into this table between us."

"It's not that simple."

"Of course it isn't. Nothing is ever simple with you. You're an artist. You always have to dramatize things and complicate them—otherwise, you wouldn't be as beautifully talented." She gave him a Look. "My task stands firm, and you _will_ complete it. I'm not choosing anyone else. I'm doing you a favor, hon. No one has to know."

"I'll know," Ashura said. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, his head bowed and his long hair spilling onto the table. "And he'll know. He'll never agree to it, anyway."

"How would you know? As a matter of fact, I believe that he'll absolutely agree to it. I think he'll embrace the matter with open arms, and you know? I think you know he will, too. You're just scared about what'll happen after."

Ashura stared at her emptily.

_Ashura stares. He can't help it. It doesn't even register in his mind that Fai is beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder. It doesn't register that his hand is stroking Fai's hair, and that Fai's flushed skin is against his neck. All he can do is stare at that one writhing body on the dance floor, entangled with the bodies of at least five other men. _

_Seeing Yuui Fluorite at his best, at the peak of his promiscuity, at the edge of the night, grinding, and dancing, and gasping, and laughing and flirting and touching and being touched is an experience to treasure. The only thing that irks Ashura was that it was all being done with other men…men that weren't…well…Ashura. _

_Especially Shizuka Doumeki. The impertinent freshman with a face that rivaled a boulder's. Shizuka Doumeki's hands are all over Yuui. Shizuka Doumeki's hands are groping Yuui in places that Ashura knows no one else has dared to touch. And Yuui looks like he's enjoying it. And that irritates Ashura in ways that he never knew were possible. _

_But Ashura's complacent smile still hasn't left his face—it never will. Although his heart nearly had a panic attack—and it was certainly jolted—when he hears Fai murmur, "He's beautiful, isn't he?"_

_When Ashura's mouth opens at the speed that grass grew, Fai laughs and shakes his head. "Yuui, I mean." Fai's eyes are sad as he turns them back to his brother. _

"_He looks like you. Of course he's beautiful." Ashura kisses the side of Fai's jaw, trying to get the violinist to look up and away. It partially works. Fai glances up at Ashura with slightly raised eyebrows. _

"_I don't mean his appearance. Or not just his appearance. I mean…" Fai tilts his head to the side, a sad intrigue coating his expression—his smile is still bright. "I mean him. How he can dance like that—look at everyone touching him. He enjoys that. He wants to be touched. He lives for body against body. It's beautiful. It makes me wonder sometimes…if…" _

"_If?" Ashura asks, brows furrowing._

_Fai shakes his head suddenly. "Nothing." He smiles. _

_That just makes it worse. Ashura knows that there's something Fai and Yuui and the Maestro know that he doesn't. He knows there's something…the reason for why he always gets the message that Fai's broken and that he himself cannot ask, cannot know, can never find out. But he needs to. He needs to, otherwise they'll all go on pretending like this, and it's already gotten ridiculous to a point where they might as well become actors with scripts. _

_Because whatever it is, Yuui and Fai and Seishiro certainly aren't doing anything about it, but if Ashura would just be damned told, then he would. He'll do something about it, and end it. _

_But when he looks back to Yuui, Yuui's looking right at him, and if that wasn't enough to make Ashura want to jab sharpened pencils into all of the surrounding boys dicks, Shizuka Doumeki's hands are up the pianist's shirt and down his pants. Yuui is watching Ashura, testing him…the artist didn't know if it was intentional or not, but Yuui's eyes seemed to tell Ashura that all of this could be his—it could be. _

_It should be._

_Ashura swallows as Fai leans deeper into him. He doesn't even know why he wants Yuui—why? Why? It doesn't make any sense really. Fai and Yuui look the same. And even if anyone in his place were given the choice, they would choose Fai. Fai is quieter…gentler—more mysterious and difficult with that smile, but it's preferable considering Yuui's wild and volatile nature. _

_No person in his sane mind would want an actual relationship with Yuui Fluorite—Shizuka Doumeki is obviously just staying for the sex. _

_Then. Apparently. Ashura Ou is as insane as they got. _

_Now he just needs to figure out why…_

"I'm scared shitless," Ashura said.

* * *

Subaru rapped his knuckles three times against the double mahogany doors of his brother's room. "Hey, you've got to come out sometime." He knocked again—this time harder and louder. He winced as the surface collides with the bones in his hand. "Damn it," he muttered. "Kamui," he continued. "You know I'm not mad at you or anything, right? Like seriously, I'm not? Everyone's at perfect liberty to fuck whoever they want."

There was still no answer.

The trumpeter decided to try another resort. "Fuuma's here. I think he came to apologize. He's waiting downstairs. K? Oy, K! I'm not lying, you know. He's seriously here, and I don't think he's going to leave until you come down."

And…nothing. Still.

Subaru closed his eyes and sighed. He put his mouth to the crack between the two doors. "Well…when you do come down, at least put on clothes, okay? I really don't think the poor guy will be able to handle seeing you naked. And I think he feels really bad about it. He looks awful. Although that could be because of how much he drank."

Subaru smiled a bit when he swore he could hear something between a sob and a laugh come from within the room. He shook his head. Really. Writers were such dramatists.

He bounded down the twirling staircase and walked briskly into the kitchen, where, indeed Fuuma—the younger brother of the bane of Subaru's existence—was sitting at the granite island at the center of the sleek stainless steel kitchen. The freshman had his hands clamped tightly around a mug of pitch-black Javanese coffee. He looked up at Subaru. "Any luck?"

"I got a sound—I think it was either a choke or a laugh, but either one still means he's at least alive." Subaru smiled, shrugging. "If you can stay long enough, when he gets hungry he'll come down for food. Although, he's been known to fast for at least four days. He's got all his drugs up there with him…so…"

"Fucking fantastic," Fuuma mumbled. He put his head in his arms, pushing away the coffee. "I'm such a fucking idiot. I'm such a fucking, fucking, _fucking_ asshole. I'm such a twat."

"No," Subaru amended encouragingly. "You're not a fucking, fucking, fucking asshole. You're just an asshole."

"Thanks." Fuuma wiped his hand over his face wearily. "What I did…it doesn't count as rape…right? I mean…it wasn't like I hurt him…or threatened him—"

Subaru laughed. "If it were rape, I think Kamui would've already come down and started beheading you. It's the fact that it wasn't rape and that he liked it just as much as you did—and wanted it just that much—that's keeping him up there. He's a writer. He has to be in control of himself, and he thinks he betrayed me."

"But he didn't…" Fuuma winced, "Right?"

"Nah." Subaru leaned the side of his head against his palm. "You came to apologize. At the least, Kamui doesn't have to worry about you evolving into the biggest prick the world's ever seen."

Fuuma jolted suddenly, as though he just remembered something. "That reminds me, speaking of big pricks, I'm really sorry about Seishiro…in general. I know he's been fucking around with you—last night, too…with Mioru…"

Subaru shook his head dismissively. "It doesn't matter. It's not your fault. It's not my fault. It's not his or Aoi's fault. It's just…" he exhaled. "That's who he is. No one should try to change that. Especially not me. I shouldn't be hoping he'll change on his own either."

Fuuma watched Subaru's face, the sadness in it…the evidence that he loved the Maestro of the Prickarmonic orchestra more than Seishiro deserved—would ever deserve…did Fuuma really care about Kamui that much? If he didn't…did he really have any business apologizing? It wasn't like he really regretted what he did…

Did he?

_Fuuma's hand wraps around Kamui's wrist. The soccer player is dragging Kamui toward the backrooms. Kamui is chugging his current glass of Prosecco. Fuuma can't see the floor clearly, much less remember how many times they've danced…how many times they've drank or done joints—and how many joints at that. _

_Kamui's laughing—everything goes hazy. Fuuma turns around and pulls Kamui to him, grabbing him by the thigh and hoisting the writer up to face level. Their lips meet slowly, as Fuuma continues to walk backward—pulling Kamui with him until the freshman's back collides against a door._

_Fuuma falls back into the room, pulling Kamui over him. The soccer player kicks the door shut and rolls himself on top of the junior. Kamui is looking up at him with those childlike eyes. Large and full. The alcohol can be easily felt pulsing all around them, egging them on with every breath and gaze._

_Fuuma clamps his hands over Kamui's wrists—they're so thin even as fogged as things are, Fuuma's terrified he'll break something. Kamui's eyes seem to realize where he is and whom he's there with. "Fuuma…?" The tone of Kamui's voice rises. "Fuuma, what the hell?" Suddenly, Kamui's eyes aren't as childlike as Fuuma wishes they'd stay._

_He's had to gone through about three bottles of Prosecco, five bags of weed, and at least an hour of dancing to get Kamui in this state. He'd rather fuck himself than watch it all go down the drain. "Shh," Fuuma inhales against Kamui's throat. "Just…" _

_The writer begins to struggle. But when hours of typing away and gliding a pen across paper are compared to hours in the sun, kicking and running, it was obvious—and Fuuma knows it—who had the upper hand. _

_In…y'know, strength. Not…eh hem._

"_Fuuma get off of me," Kamui whispers. "This isn't funny."_

"_It's up," Fuuma says huskily, his fingers drumming against Kamui's crotch. The journalist's breath catches audibly and Kamui's struggling comes to a halt. His pale lids close and his head lolls to the side. Fuuma watches, mesmerized, as Kamui's lips open and his breathing times itself to the movement of Fuuma's fingers—down there. _

_The hand that Fuuma is using to hold both of Kamui's wrists over his head loosens, as the soccer player sees those white fingers curling in as Kamui's chest rises and falls more rapidly. Fuuma threads his free hand with Kamui's right. The writer's fingers press against Fuuma's as Kamui's voice lets out, cracking and then falling silent. _

_The junior's eyes open, glistening. The cloth beneath Fuuma's fingers is wet, and even in the dark the stain is visible against the white linen. Kamui seems to be attempting to slow his heart rate, but Fuuma wants it—needs it—to pound as fast as his own. "Don't." Kamui's voice matches his eyes—small and soft…like a child's. It's a plead._

"_Why?" Fuuma kisses him, pushing his tongue through as gently as he could. "Why should I? Give me a reason."_

"_I'll hate you." Kamui's eyes become stone. The most beautiful stone Fuuma knows he'll ever see. He watches the play of emotions fight on Kamui's angelic face—a dark angel, the opposite of the Fluorite twins. Fuuma laughs quietly._

"_You already hate me," he says, grinning sadly. His fingers find Kamui's belt and begins to unbuckle it. He unzips the writer's pants and thrusts his hand in. _

_One of Kamui's delicate hands—the right hand; the hand that Fuuma knows has authored masterpieces Fuuma will ever be able to understand in a lifetime—come up slowly to rest on Fuuma's chest…directly over where his heart was. "No." Kamui shakes his head slightly, the smallest of smiles gracing his lips. "I don't. I wish I did, but I can't."_

_Fuuma grins wider. "Don't then. Stay that way." He leans in, placing his lips against Kamui's. "Got it?" His voice is barely there, but even if Kamui can't hear him over the distant thrum of the music, he knows that Kamui will be able to feel his lips moving—feel what they're mouthing. _

_Kamui's hands are unbuttoning Fuuma's shirt, and the freshman's hands are roaming against Kamui's bare back. He can feel the lithe body pulling up against his front—desperately, in a way. One of those slender hands reaches down and touches Fuuma…wraps around him…Fuuma closes his eyes and lets those fingers stroke…and tease and—_

No. If Fuuma said he regretted what he did…what'd happened last night…then Fuuma's nose would probably grow to be as long as his little friend down south—which, considering Kamui's screams was a preferable length.

"Fuuma?" Fuuma blinked in response. Subaru was looking at him expectantly. The trumpeter slid his gaze to the side, and Fuuma followed the direction. He blinked three more times before his mind registered what exactly he was looking at. And they widened.

Kamui was standing in the middle of the kitchen—the sunlight hitting him in perfect, soft angles. You could tell that he'd just either woken up, or managed to stop crying, or he'd just had a long night. And considering the fact of last night's happenings, Fuuma guessed that it was at least two of the three. But that didn't really have much significance in Fuuma's mind. Fuuma was more concerned over the fact that Kamui's legs were completely naked.

More or less, all that Kamui had on was an overlarge cashmere sweater with the billowy sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The sweater was just long enough to cover the tops of his waifish thighs, and from the way that the soft material clung to his lower body—or all that it covered of his lower body—Fuuma hazarded that Kamui wasn't wearing any underwear.

Dear God.

Subaru's eyes were clearly disappointed. "I thought I told you to at least wear clothes."

"I did," Kamui said. Fuuma was glad to see that the signature sarcasm was at least still going strong. "I just didn't feel like putting any underwear on. I'm still a bit sore."

Fuuma's mouth opened. Nothing came out.

Subaru laughed. "I'll leave you two to discuss your nightly revelries."

As he left, Kamui shouted—in what could be described only in the embarrassed-irritated-brother tone, "There's nothing to discuss!" He sighed and slid into the seat Subaru had vacated. Fuuma forced himself to focus on Kamui's face rather than the fact that the writer's naked legs were against his own, and that the stupid, stupid, stupid junior wasn't wearing any underwear.

"I'm really sorry," Fuuma managed to say. As Kamui stared, the freshman fumbled enough to find his coffee cup—just to have something to occupy his hands—and gulped down three-quarters of it in one swallow.

Kamui covered the hand that held the cup, and gently pried it away from Fuuma. He smiled at the athlete as he placed the china rim against his own lips and drank. "Is it Java? I didn't know we had any."

Fuuma swallowed. "Uh. Yeah. Yeah, I think that's what…your…um, brother said—told me it was." He glanced down at his hands and then back up to Kamui. "He's not mad at you or anything, y'know."

"I know."

"Then why—"

"I was thinking," Kamui explained. "All night as soon as I got back. All day as soon as I woke up."

"About what?"

"Was last night a fuck?" Kamui leaned in, his eyes becoming all that Fuuma could see. His breath breezed against Fuuma's lips.

Fuuma touched the writer's cheek. "No."

"Do you like me?"

"Yes."

Kamui smiled hesitantly. "Uh-oh."

Fuuma frowned. "What do you mean 'uh-oh'? Don't you like me? Isn't that what you meant last night when you said you couldn't hate me? I wasn't fucking around, and I swear to God that last night wasn't just supposed to be a stand."

"I know," Kamui said quietly, looking down. "That's the problem."

"What?"

Kamui laughed, smiling. It was the most disturbing laugh that Fuuma had ever heard—hysteria, sadness, and need all mixed in. The smile wasn't any better either. Kamui licked his lips and his shoulders went up, caving his slender frame. "That's how our brothers' drama started, isn't it? That time during our freshman year…at some party…Subaru had heard that Seishiro was trouble…kept refusing…they got drunk, crap happened…started a relationship…and now—" Kamui shrugged.

"I'm not my brother," Fuuma said softly.

"Neither am I," Kamui replied simply, his eyes saying all that Fuuma needed to hear. All that Fuuma wished he'd never have to.

* * *

Sakura spun around in a circle and then collapsed onto the large bed. "So what was it like?" She sat up, bouncing on the mattress, up and down—although goose-feathered mattresses didn't spring back very well—and clasped her hands over her head.

"Italy?" Fuuka asked quietly. He smiled. "They didn't let me out a lot. I was mostly kept inside, except for twice a week. There was a courtyard—an open air loggia and I could go out there and get some sun so I wouldn't…I dunno…become a ghost."

She laughed. "Cool. Did you see the pope? Or the leaning tower? Did you take any pictures? Can I see them?" She widened her eyes and laughed again, throwing her head back and then flipping her hair over her eyes. "Sorry. I talk a lot, don't I?"

He grinned, leaning against his dresser and shrugged. "No. It's funny. I like it. I didn't really think of taking pictures though. But I can tell you all about it. It'll be long—and the beginning's kinda depressing."

"I can handle depressing. Y'know, my boyfriend, Yukito?" She shrugged and frowned slightly. "He's been really…I don't know…down or something these days and he won't tell me why. It's not like I won't understand—I'm the one he should turn to. But…I don't think he's talking to anyone about it…he should, though. He and my brother are best friends, I mean."

"Syaoran told me about Touya. He says your brother's really good at soccer—and that he's a cool guy. A good friend. He a good brother?"

"The best. He's gay, y'know, and I think he likes someone," Sakura whispered the end mockingly. Fuuka laughed and sat beside her on the bed.

"Yeah? You know who?"

"I'm working on it," Sakura said with an exaggerated wink.

Fuuka smiled. "So, how is it to have an older man as your boyfriend? Have you guys done it? It seems like everyone else on the planet who's old enough to get it up or get it wet has."

"Shut up!" Sakura squealed, slapping his shoulder. "I have not! God."

"Saving yourself for marriage?" Fuuka teased.

She shrugged. "I don't know. Really, I think that I'll just do it with the right person."

Their fingers touched. "And how'll you know who that is?"

"I just will, I s'pose."

Fuuka's finger curled beneath her chin, tilting her face up.

You know the story, sweetlings. You aren't going to make me actually say what happens next, are you? Honestly, my work around here is never done. Just one busy day after the next. But from the look of things, I'm not the only one who's got a lot on their plate.

* * *

_A/N: So I've noticed that the reviews so far on the first Impulse short story have been featured on Yuui and Doumeki's ages....and really, that's the point so I'm kind of happy that I got the age thing across. But just to be on the safe side, I'm not exaggerating or anything, because in my school--which is a private Catholic school--I'm pretty sure we started the whole first kisses thing in fifth grade. It wasn't anything serious. Kind of like a kindergartener's kiss, y'know? But eighth grade, seventh....the groping here and there arises, and there's making-out (not at school, obviously, but y'know). There was one extremely special unbelievable case where the groping went a bit "too far" but...well...my classmates involved in that weren't the most...chaste of people...and it wasn't anything really bad. Really, it wasn't. It was just....my mind is still partially traumatized--in the slightly funny way. I didn't see it or anything, it was just...GUH. _

_Anyway, enough on my life rambles. Reviews 0_0. _

_(Oh, and I've given up on abstaining on spoilers. If you want a clue to the plot, zoom in on every mention of Fuuka--just to make it clear, he was sent to rehab around when he started seventh grade for crystal meth, so he's been in Italy for about three years? Yeah. One more thing, props to anyone who can translate what Kamui's last words in this chapter meant)_


	16. Circus

Chapter Fifteen: Circus

Fai stared. He tilted his head to the right and winced. He tipped his head to the left and grimaced. He even lay down on his bed with his head hanging off the edge and tried looking at it upside down. "No." He came back upright and shook his head, smiling. "No way. You're not going to school like that. It…it's not possible. I don't believe it."

Yuui smiled angelically at his reflection in the full-length mirror. "It's the biggest heat wave this year," Fai's brother said. "I'm not about to go to school in my uniform and die of dehydration."

"You drink more than you take notes," Fai retorted. "You'll live."

"I will if I dress like this. Which I'm going to. You should join me."

Fai loved his twin. Really, he did. But at times, Yuui took things too far—albeit in the amusing way, but all the same, too far took a lot of nerve to pull off. And it wasn't like Fai himself had enough nerve to do half of the things his brother did. It would put them out of balance if he did—Yuui was the entertainer, and Fai was the observer. Always watching and never performing.

"The teachers will have a fit."

"Of course they will." Yuui grinned. "Because they'll have to go to jail if they touch me. And since they all value their reputations too much, they'll all just have to live with their boners until they can jerk off during their lunch break. It's a sad world, isn't it?"

Fai laughed. "You aren't helping it at all, either." He sat up and went to stand beside his twin. Yuui was right on one account—at the rate the temperature was going since this morning, it would be the hottest day of the year so far, and they would probably all die in their uniforms the minute they stepped into the un-air-conditioned area of the courtyard.

And apparently, the pianist thought it would be amusing and efficient if he wore an overlarge but somehow fitting wife beater—which looked suspiciously like the one Shizuka Doumeki was wearing beneath his shirt on the day of the white party, but Fai would rather not think about who his brother did—and a pair of pitch black pants (cut from some kind of silky material that was about as heavy and constricting as air, and clung to Yuui's legs like water).

Babes, in other words, it's one of those outfits that sounds respectable, but when you see it on someone like Y, you'll know them for what they really are—fuck-me clothes.

"What are you talking about?" Yuui asked in a voice that made Fai laugh and roll his eyes. "I'm showing a perfectly respectable amount of skin in a completely non-provocative way." He turned his head and kissed his brother on the lips, still grinning. Fai shoved him to the side, and it was Yuui's turn to laugh.

The sleek black Samson on the side table rang, and Fai looked at the number. He held the call, and switched it off. "Ashura's here," he said to his brother. "Are you riding with us today?"

Yuui shook out his hair like a dog and then whipped it out of his eyes with an eerie expression—an eerie little smile. "No. I already have a ride. You go on ahead."

"Should I be scared?"

"Very."

* * *

"Just pull over there," Doumeki told his chauffeur through the little opening. His driver nodded and rested the Town car against the curb separating the green grass from the neatly rolled gravel. He grabbed the fold of his tie and tugged it loose. Even with the air in the car turned up to full blast, it was still as fucking hot as fucking hell. He just hoped that Yuui didn't make things worse for his poor little friend who was currently suffering from heat stroke downstairs. He looked down again—really, if it was suffering a heat stroke it should just lie the fuck _down_.

Now, D. You and I both know that your little friend will go down after you go down on Y—I mean W.

The front door of the large Victorian house opened, and Doumeki just about had a seizure when Yuui stepped out. Yuui wasn't helping the cause at all. If anything—though, there was hardly any room for an 'If' in Doumeki's pants—Yuui was making things worse…much, much, much worse. And really, at this rate, Doumeki decided that it wouldn't count as rape if he started banging Yuui on their way to school because he had been aptly provoked.

What the _fuck_ was Yuui wearing? No, screw that. What the fuck was _wrong_ with him? Doumeki knew that he shouldn't be intruding on things like this—that he and Yuui weren't even really together—but it was just so prominently and evidently _there_ that…that it was like someone had to make sure the dumbass knew it.

From the way Yuui acted…from the way Doumeki had always seen Yuui act—even from the very first time they'd met (which also happened to be the very first time they'd fucked) Yuui had always been more…sexual…more daring…bold…and stupid at times in some ways than all the other kids in Doumeki's social scene. Really…Yuui just didn't give a flying fuck—less than even someone like Mioru.

But whereas Mioru was just a prick like that, for Yuui…it seemed…it felt like it was to keep everyone laughing—to keep everyone shocked so much at what he _did_—

--That they wouldn't be able to see what he felt.

Yuui opened the door and slid in beside Doumeki. When Yuui leaned to the side to place his book bag and get it settled on the space near the door, Doumeki was able to glean the sight of a thin ribbon of pale skin revealed as the wife beater (was that _his_ wife beater?) rode up.

"Hot today, isn't it?" Yuui smiled, as the chauffeur took the cue to begin driving.

Doumeki raised one eyebrow. "Isn't that my shirt?"

Yuui took one of Doumeki's hands and brought it against the white cloth, sliding it down the slender firmness of the pianist's body. "You tell me. Does it feel like your shirt? I don't quite remember."

The striker licked his lips and swallowed dryly. He yanked his hand out of Yuui's grasp and dove it up the shirt—Yuui's shirt, Doumeki's shirt, he really didn't give a crap who's shirt it was; it could be an archangel's shirt and he still wouldn't give a shit about doing the naughty on it. Yuui fisted Doumeki's collar and pulled their lips together.

The chauffeur's sunglass-ed eyes flickered to the rearview mirror, and the screen between the front and the back of the car slowly rose.

Fasten your seatbelts, babe.

* * *

Kurogane slammed his foot into his opponent's leg, causing him to fall with a shout. He normally didn't hit so hard this early—hell, he normally didn't fight this hard at all—but today was a special case. He yanked off his headgear and threw it at the mat, stomping back toward the tables to chug down some water. His opponent—some sophomore, the one that'd supposedly come back from rehab in Italy—followed him, slowly removing his own headgear.

Fuuka shook out his hair and bemusedly watched Kurogane attack his water bottle and swig down the entirety of the contents. "Are you…okay? You seem kind of…mad today. And thirsty."

"Why wouldn't I be okay?" Kurogane barked, bits of water spraying the air.

Fuuka winced, smiling sheepishly. "Well…maybe because of something that happened at that after party on Saturday? I heard a lot of crap went down—especially for the big boys."

"Your older than I am."

"You know what I mean. Like those two pairs of twins—the opposite ones; the blond ones and the dark ones. And then there was the Maestro and his brother…all of the kids of the iconic families were there. It was a pretty huge thing, wasn't it? Plus, I heard…y'know." Fuuka looked at him apologetically. But that was one thing that Kurogane didn't mind about this guy—even though he'd gone through shit, he still had some sort of sincerity to him.

Probably because he hadn't yet met a bastard like Mioru to ruin it.

"I don't want to hear any crap about the Maestro." Kurogane smashed the plastic bottle in his hand and chucked it at the stupid recycling bin—part of the school's even stupider "Go Green" plan; as if it wasn't just a ploy to get more tree-hugging sponsors and benefactors. The bottle bounced off the rim and fell to the ground, kindling Kurogane's anger further.

It was clear as day in his mind—the sight of Mioru disappearing in the grinding, tossing, writhing, dancing crowd in the middle of the club, only to emerge at least two hours later completely draped over the fucking Maestro. Mioru's eyes hadn't glanced once at Kurogane through the entire thing—they were all for the Maestro.

And then, the next day, Mioru had the audacity to call Kurogane and ask him if he could pick the soccer captain up from the Maestro's fucking goddamn _house_. Kurogane had all but broken his cell phone in a close fit of rage that had alarmed two of his father's butlers into spilling the miso soup, and made one of his mother's maids cry.

But Kurogane probably wouldn't be half as outraged if he didn't know that the minute he saw Mioru, and the minute Mioru touched him—begged for forgiveness and told Kurogane that it was a fucking mistake—Kurogane would start the process all over again. It wasn't like Mioru had never pulled shit like this before. It was just that Kurogane kept putting up with it.

It was the same cycle repeated a thousand times in the span of only half a year. "Fuck," Kurogane said in a guttural mutter, causing Fuuka to jump a few inches. But of course, he also knew that once all was forgiven and he embraced Mioru back with open arms, Mioru would begin to go on about how fucking the Maestro was a once in a lifetime opportunity and how it was privilege and how now everyone would know his name and—

The amount of times Kurogane had wanted to turn Mioru's bastard little face inside out for things like this was innumerable.

What did Mioru think Kurogane was supposed to _be_? Did the little shit have some sort of fuck buddy chart and Kurogane was at the center—was he Mioru's main fuck and Mioru could come and go as he damn well pleased?

Because if that were true, then Kurogane was going to have to say a silent apology in his mind to his father, and use violence—not for protection or defense—but to kick the little asshole so hard that he'd have to have his asshole sewn, and then get a new one cut in.

The thought of this prospect cheered Kurogane up—somewhat—and he tossed his gear back on, facing Fuuka, and gesturing with one of his hands. "One more time," he said to the sophomore, jumping back onto the mat.

* * *

Yukito fell against the birch plywood floor of the dance studio. He winced, shaking the perspiration-damp hair out of his eyes. His glasses had fallen with him to the ground in a loud clatter—breaking the dim silence of the period before classes began. There were hardly ever any seniors this early. Most of them practiced in the comfort of the studios at their own homes, or at their private teachers. The majority of the dancers that practiced at school during the mornings were scholarship students.

But they had to use the studios closer to the entrance, while Yukito was given the privilege of reserving one of the newer—and therefore, better—ones in the back. He'd always preferred to practice—to warm up—at Fuki. There was something about it that made it more…relaxing, perhaps, than doing it in the defeated silence of his own home. They were different silences, and he liked this one better.

Besides, this studio had good memories for him—memories that he knew he should forget, but he just…well, couldn't. And it was probably for that exact reason—and memory—that he'd gotten himself into the shit that he was in.

He exhaled forcefully, and pushed himself back up, looking at himself squarely in the mirror wall. There was a reason why in every dance studio there had to be at least one wall that was purely and simply just one enormous mirror. Some dancers—experienced dancers—danced with their eyes closed. But until you were that good, you had to look in the mirror. Even when you were a beginner and your form and the way you moved looked horrendous, part of the practice was to force yourself to watch because even if you didn't, your audience would.

Yukito ran a hand through his hair, and stripped off his shirt, leaving his torso bare, and his sweatpants at least three inches lower than when he'd started. The sweat clung to him like clear crystal beads. He put his hands on his legs, bending over and trying to catch his breath. He rummaged around the floor for his glasses and then shoved them back onto his face.

When he'd straightened, he looked at his reflection. He placed his fist onto the center of his chest and attempted to roll off from the inciting movement—the goal was to make his entire form look like it was fluid set off from one flick of his fist. It looked too stiff—he'd been trying to perfect it for four days. Normally, perfection for him could be achieved in one and a half. He would've liked very much to blame it on Touya, but that was ridiculous.

Touya had his own life and his own problems and Yukito was apparently nowhere in them—other than the fact that Yukito was supposed to be going out with his younger sister (whom Yukito believed was growing bored of him).

_Why_ had Yukito had to kiss him?

Honestly. Why?

Oh, I dunno, hon. Maybe 'cause you want to screw him into that reflective wall of yours? Or maybe because you want to blow him until he's screaming for mercy? Or…here's a radical idea…

Maybe 'cause you love him?

Yukito couldn't shake the recollection of the _way_ Touya had looked at him at the white party. He wouldn't have so much of a problem with Touya hating him and being disgusted with him if Touya just didn't _look_ at him in a way that made Yukito hope. It really sucked to have some sort of…something…inside you that forced you to keep hoping even though you just wish that fucking hope would just fucking die. It'd be about time.

He closed his eyes, calming his pulse for about three seconds, before throwing himself across the studio and then sliding back full throttle to push himself into balance on one hand, his entire body up in the air. The pose was supposed to hold for a minute while he simultaneously spun—really, it was supposed to only hold for half that amount of time, but Yukito never went by any instructor's orders—but Yukito fell after forty seconds. Hard.

His head slammed first onto the floor when his hand gave way, and for a minute—even with the weirdly colored circle-squiggly things going all around in his vision—the only thing he could think of was how fucking lax he was getting with his dance. Usually, the angrier he was—or the happier, or sadder, or more frustrated—the better he was. But now…he just sucked.

Something sharp pricked his finger, and when he managed to zoom in on what it was, apparently—as if things couldn't be more fucking brilliant—his glasses had broken and the glass cut his hand. "Shit," he whispered, sitting up.

"Fuck!" Yukito's head turned and he saw some blurry figure coming toward him at full speed. The voice made it obvious whom it was once the person knelt beside him—then again, the touch made it just as obvious, but Yukito would rather admit that he could identify purely from the sound than from the…well…touch.

"What the hell happened? It looks like a fucking car hit you!" Touya shouted, over-dramatizing as usual. He grabbed Yukito's injured hand—ignoring the wince—and started gaping at the small gashes (adding up to one bloody heap in general).

"I haven't been practicing, and I was trying something that I should've completed ages ago and I fell. Happens all the time. I can't see, but if you just get me to the nurse I'll be fine," Yukito said to his knees, snatching his hand away as quickly as he could without making the pain worse. And he didn't mean from the cut.

Oh. We get it, Y II. We get it.

Yukito could see the outline of Touya's hands freezing. He'd never been more glad in all of the times he'd lost, broken—or done otherwise—to his glasses than now. He wouldn't have to see Touya's expression. Unfortunately, however impaired his vision might have been, his sense of touch was razor sharp. Sharper than ever as Touya's fingers thrummed carefully against his cheek. "All right," he heard Touya say huskily. "I'll do that. Sorry."

"Yeah," Yukito sighed, closing his eyes as Touya helped him up. "Me too."

He felt Touya freeze again. Then, Touya seemed to come back to life, touching Yukito right between his shoulder blades. Yukito stiffened—Touya's fingers were ablaze, literally, which wasn't all that surprising considering how hot it was outside. "That was one apology down, right?" Touya said, and Yukito could tell exactly the sad kind of grin his childhood friend had to have at this moment. "One more to go then. Here goes."

Touya spun Yukito around by the shoulders—

You know, sweethearts, if you _didn't_ know how to fill in the blank at this point, I'd just about keel over dead. And _that_ would be a true tragedy.

* * *

Watanuki couldn't believe this. He absolutely _could_ not believe it. On top of it being the most scorching hot day ever—and Mioru practically skipping into the locker rooms (not drunk and actually awake) singing the tune of "Pop Goes the Weasel", only changing the words to "I Fucked the Maestro"—Doumeki's Town car had driven in—

Un momento, my darlings. Before I let W go on his beautiful rant, there's one thing that I have to tell you about Fuki and Maikeru, and Kaiyou and Tenbatsu. Even though each of the pairs—the two boys schools and the two girls schools—are separated by a block of coffee shops that charge seven dollars per latte and shops that hold Bvlgari and Dior, the ones of the same gender and interconnected (which I already told you) but they are also connected with a sort of outer pavilion.

This outer pavilion is mainly for the limos/Lincoln Town cars to drop off the student and whomever they may have had a fun sleepover with. Basically, it's the catwalk. You come out, you strut around, and you show off what you've got. If you trip, you might as well land on your head and die right there.

Which is why bumblebees and social aphids like W usually avoid it and go the safer route—to the side drop off arch, where they can easily sneak in without all the commotion. I'm pretty sure D does the same. Or rather, he _did_ the same.

Because really, sweethearts, which entrance do you think Y would take?

--To the pavilion (where Watanuki knew that Doumeki never went because he thought it was a pain in the ass to do so) and when the door opened, as did the boys who milled around the courtyard's mouths.

Gay or straight, single or attached, there was nothing quite like the sight of Yuui Fluorite on a hot spring day. It was just about enough to get certain anatomical parts holding their heads high in the air. Watanuki just thought it was fortunate that Mioru was safely encumbered within the depths of the locker room—probably getting it on with Kurogane, but even that was better than having him present to gape and fantasize.

And it wasn't just the fact that Shizuka Doumeki—a.k.a. the Stone—was sporting Yuui (or more so, Yuui sporting Doumeki) that it was about Yuui's clothes. Blatantly, expectedly, obviously they were fuck-me clothes. They were clothes that you wore when you wanted to make it clear that you were a whore. Watanuki was still mentally debating whether Yuui looked more like a whore, or aforementioned whore's pimp, when either the sun's light and heat were playing tricks on him or Yuui Fluorite shot a glance _right at him_.

Seriously, honest to God, as Doumeki and Whorerite walked past, Watanuki could swear that the pianist looked directly at him—and it wasn't the nicest of looks, either. Yes, Yuui was smiling—lips slightly parted, perfectly aligned teeth glinting in the sun—but his eyes had some sort of…superiority gleam in them…something that told Watanuki that Yuui Fluorite wasn't happy with him.

But then, even the goalie had to admit that he'd rather Yuui send a thousand evil eyes at his direction than have Doumeki not look at him at all. Just like now.

Not that, y'know, Watanuki _cared_ or anything. It was every (gay/bi) Maikeru/Fuki student's dream to be able to have Yuui Fluorite on his arm—every student except one's that topped like the Maestro or Ashura Ou, in other words, all students that weren't up there in the stratosphere…normal socialites, in other words. And Doumeki had that dream. Doumeki always had the potential to reign over the social scene if he…well, opened his mouth and used his vocal chords once in a while.

And apparently, Doumeki had done something right by opening his mouth…Watanuki wasn't positive that it was the vocal chords Doumeki put to use once his mouth was opened…

But still. Even if Yuui hadn't stared at him like that, Watanuki still had a bad feeling about the musician. Something that caused Watanuki's stomach to pang, and something in his chest to throb until it hurt. Wasn't this what they called a sixth sense? It had to be something like that. And as much as Watanuki would love Doumeki to be good and gone, he knew it was his duty as a teammate to tell Doumeki about his suspicions—no matter how many times Doumeki insisted that he could handle something as wild and volatile and just plain dangerous as Yuui Fluorite.

Really, at the Maestro's after party, Watanuki had seen Yuui kiss Fai—his own _brother_. Wasn't that…like…illegal or crap? And even if it wasn't…it was just…gross. Plus, Yuui was supposed to be with Doumeki. Which, well, wasn't all that vague either. That night, Yuui and Doumeki had both made it extremely, painfully, intensely clear that they were very much _together_. By this, Watanuki meant that he could add "exhibitionist" to Yuui Fluorite's long list of atrocities—and the list just kept growing.

And now, there was no doubt in Watanuki's mind that the drugs and alcohol might've been a rumor. That same night, he'd watched—not that he was spying, or anything, God—Yuui laugh it up at the bar with Kamui Sumeragi. They not only had about an entire three bottles of Prosecco by themselves, but they had about ten martini glasses lined up, at least four cosmos, and two bags of weed. By the next two hours, the bottles were empty, the martini glasses tipped and spinning, the cosmos glasses on the floor (to the bartender's immense irritation) and the bags of weed somehow shredded into strips of plastic.

Then, Yuui had gone to dance—some more—with Doumeki, and Kamui had disappeared with Fuuma (which Watanuki was planning to bet would earn him extreme points in the locker rooms at practice today).

Although, if Watanuki were asked if this really surprised him, he'd have to reply that it didn't. Because it didn't. He'd have to admit that he'd more surprised if Yuui wasn't like this. Watanuki didn't want to stereotype, but in this case it was just true—fact.

Everyone who was…everyone who was…who was in this circus called high society had a role. Watanuki? He was just one of the spectators. Yuui Fluorite? Kamui Sumeragi? Fai Fluorite? Subaru Sumeragi? Seishiro Sakurazuka? Fuuma Sakurazuka? Mioru Aoi? Kurogane You-ou? Ashura Ou? They were all in the center of the ring.

True, that Mioru and Kurogane and Fuuma were different sorts of performers than Yuui and Kamui…or Subaru and Fai…and extremely different from the Maestro, but they were all one in the same. With a circus, it was rare to find a middle ground—Touya was an immense rarity; he was fortunate that way.

Watanuki knew that having that certain…something…that odd allure that no one could explain exactly what it was…that all of these performers had…was a talent in itself—something that you were born with. Whether on a soccer field, or on a stage, even Watanuki was considered a performer at that. But these kids performed on the social stage. When they posed for the cameras, they could glitter in the dark. When they laughed and smiled, everyone watched. When they had sex in almost full view, they were considered artists…not sluts.

And because of that…it took even more to be someone chosen by one of these people. Like Doumeki. Watanuki knew that a whore Yuui Fluorite might be, it didn't make those blue eyes any less keen—any less sharp, if not more—than his own. Than anyone's.

If Doumeki impressed Yuui…Yuui Fluorite—Yuui Fluorite, who danced in the center of the ring, purposely catching everyone's eye and loving it; who never tripped or stumbled, because even though no human was perfect, Yuui Fluorite was an extremely close second—then who was Watanuki to say, knowing all of this, that the forward couldn't handle it?

Uh, because no one on earth can handle Y unless he lets them? And Y only lets _one_ letter of the social alphabet handle him. Sorry, W…it's not D.

* * *

_A/N: Yes....this chapter has a song, and as some of you might or might not have already guessed from the last few paragraphs...it's Circus by Britney Spears. _

_(waits for the attack) ......I'm safe, then, I s'pose. 'Cause, y'know, I was watching all of her old music videos, since I was in about first grade when the whole Britney/Christina hype was going on. But i think I'm starting to get why she was so big. Her voice is....probably technically enhanced, her songs' lyrics are somewhat repetitive (or very repetitive) but somehow, they're just addictive, y'know? ......Wow. This note is getting REALLY random. Anyhoo, if any of you are wondering (probably not, though, 0_0) the reason I made Watanuki's POV of the "popularcoolnesszomg crowd" is because...well, you've got Mioru who admires them, you've got Yuui and Kamui who are part of them, and you've got Kurogane who doesn't give a flying fuck about them. You've got to have SOMEone who hates/is intimidated by/admires them. Plus, Watanuki just seems like that kind of character. So, I s'pose it's up to you as the readers to choose which side you sympathize with (you must be lying or go to an extremely rare school, or are homeschooled if you tell me that you've never come in contact with these kinds of popularcoolnesszomg people.) I have to say that I'm with Kurogane. I hang out with them when I need to. I'm irritated by them when they annoy me. I leave them alone when it gets too intense._

_......Reviews..............0_0_


	17. Birthday Boy

Chapter Sixteen: Birthday Boy

Seishiro lifted the bulky cigar from his lips and blew out. He watched lazily as the smoke drifted upward into the air, spiraling into nothingness with the light of the faint sun. He threw his head back, his bangs falling backward from his forehead, and stared at the ceiling with heavily lidded eyes.

He knew he should be making arrangements about who to ride with to Aoi's party, and who to arrive with, who to leave with, and who to sleep with…but right now, at this moment, he just felt rather dead. Which wasn't good at all, because he was the Maestro. The Maestro wasn't allowed to feel anything but in control, manipulative, and in a fucking good mood—or wasn't a good, fucking mood? Either way.

Although, it wasn't all that possible as he'd just screwed the birthday boy himself, and he thought he'd sworn off high schoolers as he was now the Maestro of Akamizu. Plus, there had been that time at his own house party when he'd first got back that he'd done Subaru. On his mother's favorite circular-shaped sofa. Ah well.

If Seishiro thought as he'd like to, then he'd say that Subaru was just a mighty good fuck and really nothing else. However, if Seishiro were to be truthful with himself, then he'd have to say that he was most likely—probably undoubtedly—madly in love with Subaru and he would just rather not get on to that topic, let alone admit it because he was the Maestro and he was supposed to be the master of the orchestra. The master had to always be in control. Love was the equal of surrendering to another person, place, or thing. Or at least, this kind of love was. And the Maestro surrendered to no one, no place, and nothing.

Besides, wasn't it enough that his little brother's boy toy was giving him the evil eye every chance he got? He supposed he loved Subaru…but…Kamui wasn't too bad either. In fact…Kamui might even be better…it was kind of sad that Seishiro would never find out, since he was pretty sure that the journalist would voluntarily have sex with him as soon as he ripped his eyeballs out. Which, y'know, would hurt.

Quite a bit.

It was true, though. Even though Subaru was all Seishiro had sampled of a Sumeragi body, Kamui's personality was more alike with Seishiro's—or at least, Kamui had a better chance of empathizing and maybe even sympathizing with the conductor.

Kamui was intriguing. He had the same face as Subaru—the same black hair with the microscopic bits of gold woven through, the same childlike eyes, the same delicate carvings—but he used it more…ruthlessly. He used it to his advantage; he knew what his face could do to men and women. Just like Yuui, Kamui danced in the center of the ring. Seishiro wasn't interested (unless it involved sex) in the ones that helped the performers into their costumes and lifted them into the air—like Fai and Subaru—he was allured by the performers themselves. The ones that could speak with just their eyes and dance with their lips. Because Seishiro was a conductor. He had no use conducting those who weren't even on stage.

He sucked the tip of his Montecristo again and held in the smoke for a few seconds this time before blowing it out. He couldn't believe that he was stuck in his hometown for spring break when he could be fucking his living brains out in a snug six-story cabin nestled somewhere in the Alps with a fireplace and a bear rug.

Seishiro stood up from the armchair and was about to head for his bed in an attempt to fit in a siesta before brunch, when his door was flung open and Fuuma came falling down flat on his face with Fai beneath him. Seishiro's eyebrows went up, as Fuuma righted himself, though Fai remained as he was—spread-eagle and lifeless. The Maestro's eyebrows went up further when he saw that Fai's legs were the part that was limp.

"Jesus," Fuuma said, gasping. "Fluorite just comes out of fucking nowhere and bursts through the front door…half dead. No car, I don't know how the hell he got here. He's in pretty bad shape, though." The soccer player took one apologetic look at Fai and jogged out of his brother's room.

Seishiro closed the door and knelt beside Fai's head. The pale sapphires stared straight up at the ceiling, the whites of his eyes veined with sore red. "It looks like you're just in time for brunch," the Maestro said. "And apparently, it looks like Kyle already had brunch. What did the doctor have this morning?"

"Me."

"Did he bring guests?"

"Five." Fai's voice was invisible—clear. It was as if it wasn't even speaking. "I couldn't see them. I was blindfolded."

Seishiro didn't touch the violinist. That was a ground rule. He couldn't touch Fai until Fai let him, until Fai touched him first. No one could touch Fai like that—touch him without being allowed—except for Yuui. He sat back on the ground and took Fai's elbow, dragging him into an upright sitting position. "And how come you aren't with Yuui right now?"

Fai hung his head low enough so that his bangs would cover his face. He cradled his head in his hands and brought his knees to his chest. "I hit him…I…I threw…I don't know what I threw…some wooden vase or something…it hit his shoulder…"

"And then you ran for it and came here?" Seishiro watched Fai's curtained face for only a minute, before the musician reemerged smiling and bright-eyed.

"He hates me," Fai said, lightly shrugging. "He's got to. No one in their sane mind would give all of themselves—treating me, caring for me, putting the pieces back together…and then have a vase thrown at them and not have any hate. It's ridiculous if he doesn't."

"Love's ridiculous," Seishiro snorted. "And it is most definitely not sane." He touched the edges of Fai's hair, and kissed him briskly. "Which is why you should go downstairs and have one of my chauffeurs drive you back. He'll think that you hate him if you stay over. And besides," Seishiro grinned, "We have a party to attend tonight, remember?"

"I'm not going," Fai sighed. He smiled with what seemed like a painful effort. "I told Ashura to go along with Yuui, but since Kyle's going on a business trip, I felt like staying home. Alone."

Seishiro smiled complacently. "Have fun on that, then." His eyes followed Fai as the junior stood up slowly. "And apologize to Yuui," he said. "Make sure he hasn't killed himself yet if the vase hasn't done it already."

Fai laughed airily and bent down to kiss Seishiro at the corner of his mouth. "I will." He tipped his head and for a moment looked every bit a Fluorite—seductive, charming, and deadly with intrigue—as he touched Seishiro's cheek. "On one condition: You be nice to Subaru."

As Seishiro watched Fai leave, he had to hold back his laughter with a great effort. Maybe it was a twin thing—to be bipolar. Or maybe…Seishiro looked up at his ceiling and reached over for another blow on his cigar…or maybe he was just the best fucking teacher in the world.

You most certainly are a fabulous teacher, Maestro. If only you'd take your own lessons. Then you'd learn something for a change. Well, you know what they say: Through teaching is the best way to learn. So, y'know, maybe you should start teaching deary K how to let go of his pride and start giving your baby bro a little loving. You might even learn a thing or two.

* * *

Subaru looked at himself in the mirror. It was his face. It was also his brother's face. The face that Fuuma Sakurazuka obviously loved, and the face of one of the Maestro's playthings. He lowered his eyes and turned away, facing the only other person in the world that had his face. Kamui was lounging on Subaru's bed—completely wet and naked from a shower. He was looking through his Blackberry—apparently, a writer's greatest weapon. Or one of them, anyhow.

"Shit," Kamui said, "D'you know who just sent me an email?"

"Emperor Constantine?"

Kamui gave him a dry look. "No. Yuuko Ichihara. Hey—don't give me that face. You know that one in a thousand to about half a million people are born like us and about one of every ten of us are handpicked by the goddess herself to personally talk to her. The entire social scene listens to her word alone—she's Seishiro's mentor."

"I heard she fucked him," Subaru said tonelessly.

"And I thought I told you that she can do whatever she wants. When you're Yuuko Ichihara, there's no such thing as illegal and legal. There's just what you want and when you want it." Kamui stated it with an air of finality. "Now, do you want to know what the email says or not?"

"Not."

"Too bad, you're going to hear anyway. She asked me if we could be in the photo spread she's doing in Addictive." Kamui tossed the Blackberry onto the bed and walked to Subaru's closet. Subaru adjusted the lapel of his tux and watched his twin skillfully sort through the clothes.

Addictive was somewhat different from Elite and the bWitch blogs. It was "legal" like Elite, but it had a naughtier element, since after all, it was a magazine aimed for "young adults". It mainly featured upcoming socialites—those who were the center of the social scene and who would be graduating out of high school soon…or college…or coming into college…articles such as those.

And yes, it was famous for the photo spreads—infamous to the nth degree. It wasn't that they were…nude or provocative or revealing or in any way relatable to porn or anything. It was that…somehow, Yuuko Ichihara (she did the spreads herself) managed to capture the truth of all of her interviewees personalities and characters and natures with a simple photo. Of course, a picture was worth a thousand words, but those words weren't necessarily true.

But with Addictive's photo spreads…they always were.

Which was exactly what scared Subaru so much about agreeing to doing something like this. Everyone read Addictive. Everyone would see the picture. Everyone would see who he really was. Whoever that was.

Because the most frightening thing—more frightening than having everyone see who you truly are—is you yourself not knowing what you'll find when who you really are is exposed. Not knowing who you are? That's something to be scared shitless about. Isn't that right, baby S?

* * *

Doumeki watched Yuui's chest rise up and down with the steady rhythm of breath. His hand restrained itself from yanking down the sheet that covered the musician's otherwise naked body. It'd been unexpected—but not at all unwelcome—to receive a call from Yuui just minutes ago saying that he was coming over. It was also unexpected to see that Yuui's eyes were slightly bloodshot, but it wasn't all that unwelcome, because apparently, the more upset Yuui Fluorite was…the hornier the pianist got.

The foreplay had lasted all of two minutes, and in five more minutes they'd climaxed. It was probably the world record for a quickie.

Through the seven-minute sex, Yuui had been muttering something about his brother, about ridiculous forgiveness, and about how much he'd like it if Fai kept hitting him with wooden vases rather than apologizing. Or something of that variation. Still, Doumeki wished that Yuui would at least give him a hint on what the hell was going on in the Rondart household. After all, wasn't that what Doumeki was there for?

Doumeki's hand reached toward the slight bulge between Yuui's legs. A pale hand shot out and grabbed his wrist, stopping the intended movement. "We're a little _too_ enthusiastic today, aren't we?" But Doumeki let out a relieved breath when he saw that Yuui's face was grinning. Of course, the Fluorite twins always smiled, so he wasn't sure if that meant he was safe yet.

"Your clothes for the party were dropped off while you were sleeping." Doumeki sat back against the pillows, pulling his wrist out of Yuui's hand. Yuui's grin widened and he rolled over to straddle Doumeki. As in, Doumeki's buddy downstairs was poking right into the gate of Yuui's backyard.

Yuui's lips skimmed the column of Doumeki's throat. "Don't you think…" The musician's legs gripped Doumeki's sides tighter. "The party would be so much more…_fun_…" Doumeki's hand felt slowly in a line up Yuui's thigh. "If we didn't have any clothes at all?"

Yuui didn't even flinch when Doumeki went stone hard right beneath the pianist's probably still-sore area. Yuui just leaned in close and kissed the skin of Doumeki's eyelids as softly as a toddler would kiss his or her mother. Doumeki didn't get any less aroused—or any calmer—but for some reason, it was easier to restrain. Doumeki's hands didn't move anywhere near the area between Yuui's legs or behind it. They just moved up to hold Yuui's face.

Yuui wasn't smiling anymore. He simply looked completely worn out. Not by any particular thing, just…worn out by everything in general. Doumeki couldn't really empathize with that, but he could sympathize with it. He couldn't say anything that would make it better…he couldn't usually say much anything at all. But he could hope that Yuui understood.

The pianist wrapped his arms around Doumeki's neck and let his body become limp—he let it lose all life and pressed his face into Doumeki's hair. At first, Doumeki kind of just…sat there—his arms at his sides. But something told him that he was supposed to wrap his own arms around Yuui. So he did.

Later on, he wouldn't admit it because of awkwardness purposes, but he knew that his hair hadn't been wet before he'd held Yuui. And he was even surer that if it had been, it wouldn't have been with drops of saltwater.

Yeah…okay…so this would've been a totally touching moment and all except for two itsy, bitsy little details that you forgot to incorporate, D. Remember W and A?

* * *

"Tomorrow, spring break is going to start officially," Mioru mused to himself, staring at his ceiling from his spread-eagle position on his parents' bed. He was in the master bedroom—probably large enough to house a normal family of four—which he was in often since his parents' were away even more often. "And tomorrow, I'm going to be fucking sixteen," he finished with relish. He twirled the silver ring between his fingers. All of his guests had one—it'd come with the invitation. The tiny seal on the ring was also the key to opening they're suites—although he doubted anyone at all would be alone in each of their respective rooms—and to get into Material.

He knew that he himself certainly wouldn't be alone. After the greatest fuck in the world with Seishiro Sakurazuka, he really didn't want to do it with anyone that intimidated the shit out of him. Not that Kurogane wasn't kind of scary, too. The martial artist hadn't been speaking to him as of late, but Mioru knew that his parents were forcing him to go to the party on account of the freshman having already made a "commitment to attend".

He honestly didn't know what the hell was wrong with Kurogane sometimes. If the freshman had been given a once-in-a-lifetime chance to fuck the Maestro, Mioru was willing to bet his ten-thousand dollar birthday check that Kurogane would've embraced the chance—literally. Anyone would. It was perfectly normal, right?

Very normal, M.

Mioru loved Kurogane. Truly, he did. Kurogane was the only person that made him feel real. Despite all the insanity that Mioru caused, and despite the fact that he had a feeling he himself was insane, Kurogane was there to always come back to. That was one thing Mioru could always count on when he was dancing to the center of the ring—that Kurogane would always be there watching and waiting.

Just like tonight. Tonight, Mioru would explain to Kurogane why he'd slept with the Maestro, and Kurogane would understand. Mioru would make sure that Kurogane had no doubt that no matter who Mioru let screw him, Mioru only really loved Kurogane. And no one else. Yeah, the sophomore might think that some passing boy or girl was extremely fucking hot, and he might follow them into a corner to do them, but that didn't mean that he loved Kurogane any less.

And tonight, sweetheart, you're going to get a present you'll never forget. Remember to blow out your candles and cut your cake!

Oh. And I almost forgot—

Happy birthday, M.

* * *

_A/N: This chapter might've been longer, but I have a birthday party myself to attend tonight, so I wanted to have something done before I got out of the party mood. Plus, every day this week at least five people were absent in both eighth grades--though the five people keep rotating--and I'm afraid that on Monday, I might be one of them. Ah well. Whatever. _


	18. Addictive

Chapter Seventeen: Addictive

Unless you've been living underneath a rock, most of you will probably know that Mioru Aoi's birthday party is right around the corner. In fact, I myself will be attending, because I'm awesome like that. And to answer some of the letters I've been receiving—No, I will not be crashing the party. I was invited and therefore, will be attending.

I can be civilized sometimes, you know. With…great effort.

So, ladies, I do hope that you aren't touching any of that wonderful Ghirardelli that's leftover from the Christmas season. If you do, you probably won't fit into your Bvlgari dresses for the party, and anyway, spring break is coming up for our quartet of teen brilliance.

I, on the other hand, am still able to fit into the ensemble my designers have left out for me, due to all that hard work I put in at the gym—which, by the way, is in the south end of my house, so I apologize boys. And when you do see me in my fabulousness, I also have to apologize that this design isn't available anywhere—yet. It's a debut piece from Tomoyo Daidoji. That girl is going to debut it at her first Fashion Week.

And that, sweethearts, brings me to another topic: Fashion Week. Since it's spring, all the pieces will be for winter and autumn, so you'd better be there. Since I've been so kind to Miss Daidoji, she guaranteed that I would be in the first row on the seating chart. As for all of you, I hope that you know someone important enough to be able to see the whites of the models' eyes.

Speaking of amazing good-looks…next issue, I'll be doing a photo spread. Yes, yes, scream and grope—I know you're that excited. And by all means, you should be. At least, if you're familiar with a certain friend of mine called Seishiro Sakurazuka, a.k.a. the Maestro.

I've invited him and all of his little friends to spend their spring break with me at my Balinese villa. We've decided to take off the day after Mioru Aoi's party—so tomorrow morning or afternoon.

My Chanel glasses are already tingling with excitement.

By the way…I've decided to take in an intern. What do you think? I mean, it's an excellent way to get friendly with today's youth, isn't it? The last time took in an intern—Seishiro—he became the Maestro, and we became very…ah, friendly. So how about…this time, though, I think I'll take in a prospective _writer_. Someone who's born with that certain…_something_ that makes all of his words irresistible, even if the writing is absolute crap.

But don't bother sending in more letters even if you _think_ your writing is good. I already have someone in mind. He'll be amazingly spectacular, and I think you'll agree so, too. Just as a little hint…he'll be one of my guests to Bali. And I'll be observing him, and all of them while I sip an iced Mimosa, and enjoy the Indonesian sun.

I have a feeling that things are going to heat up once we step off the plane. After all, there's nothing as too hot. But you know what they say, if you play with fire…you might get burned.

Anyway, I'll see you at that party. Because, well, if I don't…then you really shouldn't have any business reading this magazine, anyway, do you? It's not something you earn. It's something you're born with.

But that doesn't mean you can't lose it.

--Yuuko

* * *

_A/N: Yeah, so that's Yuuko's magazine--you see how it's kinda like between Elite and bWitch? ............all right. 0_0_

_And y'know, xxxholic is like alcoholic, and it's supposed to be like an addiction? "Addictive"? Get it? ......maybe a little? Ha ha....? 0_0 okay. _


	19. Revenge

Chapter Eighteen: Revenge

Amaterasu swept her Prada sunglasses atop her sleek black hair and put one lanky gloved hand on her hip. She glanced down at her younger sister, who was fixing her Yves Saint Laurent necklace until it lay just right against her pale collarbone. They stood on the plush black carpet that led to the doors of Material. The sun was just beginning to set, which meant that they were at least two hours early.

"I thought no one else is allowed to know about this," Tomoyo said, adjusting one of her long, blue-black curls and smiling up at her sister.

"It's as good as done," the cellist replied. "Why shouldn't you know? All I need to figure out is which one he is. What's the name again?"

Tomoyo took out a piece of paper from her clutch, and raised her eyebrows at the name. "Kurogane You-ou. He's a freshman, a martial artist—karate—and he's the son of Chief You-ou and Li You-ou."

"Hm. The benefactress? That's interesting." Amaterasu raised her head and pushed her lips out haughtily. "So he's Aoi's current boy toy?"

"Looks like it."

"What does he look like?"

"The password is my spring label," Tomoyo said, handing her a rather plain looking camera. Amaterasu clicked in the password, and her eyes widened at the photograph. "He's rather good-looking for a freshman, isn't he?"

"Condoms?"

"I sewed five into the first lining," Tomoyo gestured at her sister's asymmetrical strap. "I doubt you'll need more than three, though."

The cellist pulled her glasses back down. "See? Good as done. I might as well be baptized a Sacred now."

* * *

"I assume your epic true love will be at the party," Yuui said, as they sped down the road toward Material. Doumeki was twiddling oddly with his thumbs, and not looking up at the pianist. "Are you listening? Hey. Doumeki." Yuui clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Oy."

"What?" Doumeki jerked away from the window and looked at Yuui.

After the small, insignificant breakdown at Doumeki's house, Yuui was slightly disturbed by how calmly Doumeki took it. Any normal guy would've immediately rolled on top of Yuui and done him fair and square. Whereas Doumeki had kind of…hugged him. Which hadn't been unpleasant at all, but something told Yuui that the hugging thing wasn't supposed to happen.

And Yuui had pretty much been with Doumeki all hours of the day, and during the infrequent times the soccer player had spoken, it hadn't seemed very much like there had been any progress with Watanuki. Moreover, Doumeki didn't seem bothered that there hadn't been any progress. Although, that might be more due to the fact that Doumeki didn't really seem bothered by anything in life or the beyond.

"I haven't seen you talk to your epic true love lately," Yuui said, fondling with the top buttons of his shirt just to make sure he kept Doumeki's attention. It worked, anyhow. "It's a good thing that he'll be at the party, isn't it? Don't kill me for saying so, but if he wasn't on Aoi's team, I doubt he would've been invited. Maybe you could shag him in his suite tonight."

Doumeki's eyes were still transfixed on Yuui's hand. "For God's sake, Doumeki," Yuui said loudly. The soccer player blinked his expressionless eyes and snapped his head up to look at Yuui's face. "Sometimes I actually wonder, you know," Yuui sighed irritably.

"'Bout what?"

"If you did this so you could get Watanuki or me." Yuui smiled blithely, but his eyes felt hot and he could feel the heat spreading to other parts of his face. He knew that the heat meant his gaze was turning deadlier by the second, and he damn well knew that Doumeki better be scared shitless by it.

"I don't like you," Doumeki said simply.

"And it'd better fucking stay that way." Yuui glanced at him. "Besides, you should have a good chance of romancing your little goalie while I'm in Bali for spring break." Yuuko Ichihara had sent him the text only a few days ago—Fai received an invite as well, and it was obvious that doing anything other than accepting would be a fucking stupid move.

"I got invited, too," the freshman said.

Yuui stared at him, his eyebrows shooting up. "Excuse me?"

Doumeki pulled out his phone, scrolled down a bit and punched in a few buttons before shoving it in Yuui's face. Yuui grabbed the cell and sure enough, there on the small screen blared an invite exactly like his own. Only, unlike Yuui's, for some reason…Doumeki's also had the names of the other people invited. Most of them were A-listers, such as Maikeru's Mioru Aoi and Touya Kinomoto, there was Kamui and Subaru Sumeragi…of course the Maestro was coming…along with Yukito Tsukishiro…Amaterasu and Tomoyo Daidoji…Yuui scrolled down—his own name, along side Fai's…Ashura Ou…Fuuma Sakurazuka…Kurogane You-ou…Doumeki's name…and…Kimihiro Watanuki…?

"Why the hell is he invited?" Yuui tossed the phone back to Doumeki, and folded his arms. "Look at all these names—except for You-ou, whom I presume is Aoi's new boy toy—they're all part of the A-list. And then Watanuki just comes out of nowhere. Did you bribe her to get him invited? How low as Ichihara come…honestly—"

"I didn't bribe her," Doumeki said, the tiniest hint of frustration coming out in his voice. "I don't know why she sent me the list, either. But not everything's about—"

"Status," Yuui finished with a derisive laugh. "Of course. And of course, you're right. Partially, anyway. Not everything's about status, but in our world"—Yuui leaned over to kiss Doumeki—"it's all that matters. Well, status and what it takes to achieve it. Money and sex—you need intelligence for money, and appearance for sex."

Yuui could see it clearly in Doumeki's eyes—he hated Yuui. And that was Yuui's goal…he knew the story all too well, by now. After all, it was difficult _not_ to fall in love with Yuui Fluorite. He was devastatingly smart, devastatingly alluring, devastating at sex—

And he'd probably devastate your heart.

Which was just part of the allure.

But Doumeki was special—he'd been Yuui's first time, and although your first time was most likely not going to be the person you fell in love with, they'd definitely have a certain place in your memories. Yuui wasn't about to let Doumeki be another victim of Yuui's stupidity—stupidity in letting Ashura and Fai fall in love…stupidity in not being able to let go and move on…stupidity in being too much of a coward to fight. Yuui knew that Doumeki really did love Watanuki.

Doumeki was just experiencing another kind of love—one that was flashy and glamorous, but it wouldn't last as long like the kind of love with Watanuki would. Yuui was only two years older, but he already knew all about it. It was the same kind of love Yuui had had for Seishiro. A person who you looked up to…who was usually older than you…who was beautiful and stunning and sex incarnate…and intelligent and intriguing…

But it was an adoring love—a love that worshipped and was greater on one side of the equation than the other. There should be an equal amount coming from both sides—if it was unbalanced, it would eventually tip over and fall.

Yuui wasn't about to let Doumeki do that to himself. Lucky for the pianist, it was also just as easy to hate Yuui Fluorite, as it was to fall in love with him. Although, as Yuui watched the glimmer of quick resentment in Doumeki's eyes disappear faster than it'd come…he had a feeling that Doumeki might be a little above average.

You're just figuring that out _now_, Y? You might want to check with deary K about what he's been smoking with you—it seems to be slowing down your common sense.

* * *

Watanuki stepped into the club and made a beeline for the bar—or rather, the best beeline he could, considering that the entire building was packed with thrusting bodies, flirting and laughing, dancing and…making-out…drinking and popping out drugs.

He knew that he couldn't turn down the invitation—as part of Mioru's team, he wasn't allowed to—but even if he had been allowed a choice, for once, he felt that he wouldn't turn it down. He had some business to attend to tonight. Hopefully, he wouldn't get killed attending to it, but if he did…well…he'd rather believe that he'd survive, so he wasn't about to go there.

He'd already put his gift on the ever-growing mountain of boxes and cards—most likely filled with heavily generous checks—on the table near the entrance. He'd just managed to get through the automatic bubble of girls that always immediately approached him whenever he entered a crowded building of young socialites. He knew that it wasn't him—it was his family name they wanted.

It looks like someone has an ugly duckling complex, and doesn't know that he's as hot as the next Maikeru soccer boy…maybe even hotter—I mean, most girls _do_ have a thing for glasses. It's a tad bit sexy. But I know! Let's ask D for his opinion, shall we?

But the gaggle of girls dispersed and reformed at the entrance—allowing Watanuki to sneak to the bar—when Doumeki and Yuui made their sweeping appearance. Although, Watanuki was observant enough to know that had Doumeki come alone, he would've simply come in practically invisible, but Yuui Fluorite could make the most unnoticeable of people emanate a light bright enough to blind you.

Something small poked his forearm. Watanuki turned, and looked down at Himawari's perfected girl-next-door smile. Only, she was dressed more like a girl-next-door-to-Valentino. "They make a good couple, don't they?" she winked at him, her conditioned, ironed, lotion-ed, and mousse-d curls bouncing. Watanuki tried to simultaneously return the smile, and glare at the passing Maikeru basketball players who were watching something else of Himawari's bounce.

"You think so?" Yuui Fluorite wrapped his arm around Himawari's slender, _bare_ shoulders—intervening before Watanuki even had a chance to open his mouth to answer _his_ future wife. Doumeki was nowhere to be seen—most likely trying to wish the birthday boy a happy birthday—and yet Yuui fucking Fluorite was smiling up at Watanuki as if they'd known each other their whole lives.

Himawari giggled, and looked up adoringly at Yuui. The pianist used his free hand to take hold of Himawari's and brush his lips over the slight knuckles. "I'm flattered to have such a complement bestowed to us from such a beautiful young lady," Yuui murmured, his mouth _still_ on Himawari's hand.

Which apparently meant that Watanuki's death glare didn't have any power against a Fluorite smile turned on full blast. "Um," Himawari chuckled, "I'll have to be excused. I still haven't told Mioru happy birthday yet. Oh, and I need to say hi to Doumeki, too. I'll leave you two to talk."

As soon as she was immersed into the crowd, Yuui smiled at Watanuki—a different kind of smile. A _dangerous_ kind of smile. "We should talk, don't you think?" Yuui stepped forward until his face—they were uncannily the same height—was inches from Watanuki's. "How about you buy me a drink?"

"It's an open bar tonight," Watanuki said stonily.

Yuui's fingers trailed down the goalie's cheek. "You know what I mean."

* * *

Kurogane looked at the invitation on his cell phone screen with disinterest. Like hell he was going to some froufrou villa in God-knows-wherever Bali was. It was already going to be fucking hot here—he was sure that wherever there was a beach, it'd be even hotter. He was going skiing and that was final, damn it. He pressed the decline button and stuck the cell back into his pocket. He had more urgent things to think about.

Namely, the center of attention tonight. The captain of Maikeru's soccer team, the birthday boy, Mioru Aoi…surrounded by a dozen of his friends in a booth angled at the dance floor. And of course, no one would think to invite Kurogane You-ou. He was just the boy toy. Although, Kurogane did know that once he slammed his fist down, they'd all scurry away and Kurogane would be able to walk right over. They were terrified of the fact that Kurogane was the reigning martial artist champion and he was the youngest there.

"He seems to be enjoying his special night." Kurogane glanced down with raised eyebrows. The wide dark eyes glimmered back up to him. Only, Kurogane's own blood red irises weren't really focused on the storm-cloud blue of those glimmering eyes, but rather…other…parts…

He'd seen this girl once or twice before in Elite—that magazine his parents always read with their morning coffee—but he never really had a talent for remembering names and faces he'd only seen a few times. Although, she was hot enough that he at least knew her name started with an A and that she went to Kaiyou.

"He enjoys every night," Kurogane snorted, folding his arms.

The girl smiled appraisingly up at him, her eyes half-lidded. "You don't seem to be enjoying tonight."

Kurogane's mouth quirked into a slight grin. The girl's hip was right against the side of his leg. She was extremely thin—tall enough to be a model, but from the view Kurogane had down the nearly nonexistent neckline of her gown, she had a little too much upstairs to pull off the anorexic look. Although, as she slid sideways against the wall they were both leaning on, she had a fair amount downstairs, too.

Moreover, she'd now given Kurogane the Look twice. Her eyes had canvassed his face, rode his body down, and then went back up to meet his eyes. That was the signature Look. And that now totaled into three times. "You could do much better than him, you know, Kurogane," she said, smiling.

"And who the fuck are you?" he grinned.

"I'm _so_ much better than him."

"I guess I'd better do you, then, huh?"

"I guess you should."

* * *

"A Bellini," Yuui smiled at the bartender. He turned to Watanuki. "And what'll you have?"

"Just some Prosecco, thanks," the goalie said dryly. He'd really rather not be drunk on anything strange when talking to someone like Yuui Fluorite. It could actually cost him his life. But when he watched Yuui accept the drinks, flirting with the pretty, ash-blond bartender, it was hard not to understand why Doumeki—why anyone—would want someone like Yuui.

Yuui dipped the tip of his finger into his drink and suckled off the liquid. He tilted his head back and balanced precariously on the bar chair. "So," he smiled, blinking slowly at Watanuki, "You don't like me."

Watanuki stared at his entwined fingers, clasped tightly on the counter. He could smell every inch of Yuui—he could sense and feel Yuui directly beside him. It would be easier to ignore a starving tiger sitting beside you. He wasn't surprised at how bluntly Yuui framed the statement. After being drilled so deeply into the highest, innermost sanctum of this society, it was only to be expected that the musician had grown tired of dillydallying with words. "No. I don't."

"Would it be redundant for me to ask why?" Yuui enquired softly.

Watanuki glanced at him. "That depends. Are there a lot of reasons to dislike you? I don't like you—but that could be only because I don't know you. If I asked someone who did…would it be different?"

Yuui fingered the champagne flute's stem. "Most of my…friends…are just like me. The people that I just know, however…yes…they probably hate me more than you ever could." He smiled at Watanuki. "So I supposed if you asked them, they'd just give you more reason to hate me."

"Why are you with Doumeki?"

Yuui threw his head back and laughed. "That's a rather off topic question, now, isn't it? I thought we were talking about the deeper meaning in life—hating…being hated…and now, suddenly we're back onto people? No one is very different around here…are they?"

But Watanuki could really care less at the moment. It'd been tugging at him—yanking and sniping and hissing and scratching—for weeks since the encounter where Doumeki had basically more or less told him to stop fucking into affairs that weren't any of his business. It just didn't make any sense why Yuui would want Doumeki, and why Doumeki would want Yuui.

As much as Watanuki really did _not_ want to, Watanuki _did_ know Doumeki. The goalie knew Doumeki inside and out, up and down, the corners, the barriers, the recesses of his mind, and maybe even a bit of his heart. They were childhood friends…childhood enemies…and through all of that, never once did Watanuki ever expect Doumeki to like someone as obviously untamable as Yuui Fluorite.

"Why?" Watanuki asked again.

"Why do you need to know?" Yuui breathed out against Watanuki's lips. Watanuki could smell the peach and raspberry from the Bellini in the warm blow of air. "Maybe we just want to fuck. Or maybe…" And unexpectedly enough to send Watanuki nearly reeling backward off of his chair, Yuui kissed him with grinning lips. "Or maybe you're just jealous."

Watanuki sputtered, "I'm not gay."

"Neither am I," Yuui said amiably. "There's such a thing as being bi, you know."

"I _know_ that," the athlete snapped irritably—and more flustered than he himself would've liked to admit, and probably never would for good measure. "But I'm not gay or bi. I'm straight. And I like Himawari Kunogi. Liking Doumeki is so out of the question—so inexplicably _odd_, that—"

"There's nowt as queer as folk," Yuui quoted. "If you really think that liking someone you used to fight with every day of your life…then you really are a half-ass. Figure it out." Yuui slid off the chair, and fisted Watanuki's collar—the goalie scowled. "Until then," the pianist smiled icily, "Don't fucking touch my business."

"That's a dangerous one, he is," a rich, melodic voice murmured from beside Watanuki, as he watched Yuui disappear into the crowd. Watanuki turned to the beautiful owner of the alluring voice. The woman was as pale as paper, with pitch-black hair that framed her face like water. Her full lips smiled.

"Hell right," Watanuki sighed.

* * *

Mioru walked down the dark hall leading to the backrooms of Material. He'd seen Kurogane go down the same path alone. And something like that could only mean that the martial artist had forgiven Mioru—like he was supposed to—and was waiting to give Mioru a happy birthday fuckfest, one which Mioru would welcome with open arms.

Most of the backrooms were still clean and empty, as they were mainly for the older patrons of Material who weren't as sure any more about their bodies, whereas Mioru's guests were young, bold, and wanted everyone to see exactly how beautiful they were—to want them, to _lust_ for them.

The sophomore trailed his fingers on the fluorescent wall and let his palm flow over the bumps and ridges carved into the doors, one by one. The darkness swallowed him up, as he got closer to the partially opened door—the one at the very end of the hallway. The one where he new Kurogane was waiting for him in.

There was already some rustling that he could hear—was Kurogane that horny? Was Kurogane playing with himself while he waited for Mioru? Just the thought of it caused Mioru's pants to strain a little. His pace quickened, and the sound of his footsteps became brisker. He wanted Kurogane. Now.

His hand rested on the door—he could hear rapid breathing. Mioru pushed the door open, and let the light from the lanterns that hung on the ceilings fly into the room—flooding it with visibility.

Ooh, so how is it, M?

Kurogane. Was. With. A fucking _girl_.

The girl was ass-naked, and so was Kurogane. Their clothes littered the floor beside the sofa, and his dick was obviously already inside her. Her legs wrapped around his waist, and his hands were all over her—her thighs, her hips, her ass, her chest, in her hair. The girl had this long, Rapunzel-like black hair that shrouded both of them like a blanket. Her eyes didn't meet Mioru once, but Mioru saw Kurogane's dart at him.

It was clear what that glance meant.

"_Fuck with me, and I'll fuck with you."_

Mioru slammed the door.

* * *

Revenge is a funny thing. The perpetrators who instigate some sort of horrible deed that causes the victims to want revenge might actually be aiming for exactly that—why, you ask? Well, look at it this way. If you avenge something or someone, isn't that just the same as admitting that whatever the person who wronged you did managed to effect you, someway, somehow?

Not to say that, if you weren't aiming for it at all, revenge can hurt. And in that case, the avenger might be the one that gets to feel good. I'm sure when you were in kindergarten, they told you that revenge is a bad, bad thing, because two wrongs don't make a right. But then, in middle school, you learn that two negatives always equal a positive—and that, babes, is the truth.

Revenge—when done right—makes things equal. You can't forgive and forget unless you've gotten and given out what's rightfully yours—be it money, sex, a cheat, answers…you name it. When you fight fire with fire, you don't get burned. You just get a bigger flame.

* * *

Yuui flipped open his Razr. Watanuki slid out his Touch Diamond. Doumeki whipped out his Sony Ericsson. Kamui pulled out his Blackberry. Subaru yanked out his Nokia handheld. Fai glanced at his cell phone, lying on his bed side table. Fuuma retrieved his Android. Kurogane zipped up his pants, and picked up his cell at the same time he tossed Amaterasu hers. Seishiro looked at his Wizard, and smiled. Mioru smashed his iPhone into the bar, and ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

_Amaterasu Daidoji has completed her Task._

_Welcome to the Trinity, Madame A._

* * *

_A/N: I would've had this up yesterday night, but 's login/submission was inaccesible due to a temporary glitch, and told me to please return in a few minutes--so i returned about twenty hours later and it was still inaccesible due to a temporary glitch and told me to come back a few minutes later, and when i came back about two hours later, it was finally fixed. _

_The song for the chapter overall is Revenge by Plain White T's--which is what i listened to while i wrote it, and what you can thank for the fast and long chapter. But the Kurogane/Mioru part came to me from U + Ur Hand by Pink. _

_Oh, and my grade is sick again--yesterday, i worked on this chapter while i was absent, and one of my friends told me that the Algebra test actually got postponed until today because a third of both classes were absent each. 8 from my class, and 9 from the other, and there's about thirty in each. I lost my voice on Sunday, regained a frog-induced reincarnation yesterday, and my voice abandons and returns to me unloyally throughout today, which was amusing to most of the boys sitting around me. _


	20. Development

Chapter Nineteen: Development

Indonesia is a country located in Southeast Asia, in that general area near Australia—you know, along with Singapore, and Thailand, and Malaysia, and the Philippines and whatever other countries that I can't remember. Basically, Indonesia is extremely hot and humid in the summer, and just very hot in the winter. There are not _that_ many mosquitoes, a fair amount of rats depending on where you are in the country, and these little bugs that are called "laron" by the natives—I have no clue about the English term—that come at night and when it rains.

But if you go to Bali, there's a Grand Hyatt, and you won't even remember that right outside swarms with all that excitingly pleasant (not really) wildlife that the citizens have probably hated since they were young, but don't really mind it.

And it just so happens, that since I am great, personal friends with the people over at a neighboring Japanese resort called Niko—and I might have had a (ahem) _conversation_ with the head—I was able to obtain a wonderful, very small and modest villa beside the Grand Hyatt. Near enough so that my lovely guests could share the pools and such, and have a piece of the beach.

I don't know about you—nor do I really care—but I believe in this amazingly fruitful environment, my guests, these spectacular children, will have many opportunities for some real…ah, _development_, wouldn't you say?

* * *

Kamui pushed up his Ralph Lauren sunglasses and blinked at the bright sun. He'd stepped out of the stuffy SUV (they didn't even have Town cars here, for God's sake) only seconds ago, and was currently trying to ignore the person coming out after him. It wasn't going as well as he'd hoped, however. The person that came out after him (and that he'd been forced to ride with) was not only extremely irritating, but kept smiling, too.

"You really shouldn't be looking directly at the sun, you know," Fuuma's voice sounded behind Kamui. The writer could practically hear the condescending/concerned smile on the soccer player's face. "I think your eyes are too nice to be ruined like that. It's pretty sad to cover 'em up, too, though."

"It's hot," Kamui said indifferently; he fingered the collar of the thinnest shirt he owned—which, apparently, wasn't thin enough, since there were beads of sweat hanging on to the damp ends of his usually tousled and perfectly airy hair (which was now gloomily lifeless against his scalp).

"Why don't you take off your shirt, then?" Fuuma suggested, having stripped his off in the SUV, to the great amusement of Yuuko—who had ridden with them—and the Indonesia driver.

"Because I still prefer to retain some dignity," Kamui snapped, turning his head this way and that. "Are we really the first ones here? Last time I checked, the traffic was nonexistent and the others weren't that far behind us. I really couldn't see why I couldn't just ride with my brother and the Fluorites."

Long, thin fingers stroked the back of Kamui's flushed neck—the fingernails grated gently. He jumped and whirled around. Yuuko Ichihara smiled down at him. "That's pretty scary how you do that," Fuuma commented casually, while Kamui just glared.

"This is my territory, sweetie," she said to Kamui, kissing his perspiration-glistening cheek. "I make the rules to and fro. By the way, since you're still in the hotel lobby, I suggest you behave yourselves, since—well—neither of you speak a word of Indonesia, and well, I do. You could get raped," she added cheerfully.

To Kamui's further indignation—and growing regret on ever coming in the first place to this sweltering hellhole—Fuuma swung his arm around the journalist's neck and grinned, "I assure you that won't happen, Miss Ichihara."

Yuuko just grinned back, and left with a wave, "Well, at least he won't get raped by a stranger."

With that, Kamui quickly pulled away from Fuuma, and went to gather as much shade as he could—if it was already the hottest place on earth, why were the lobbies _open_ lobbies?

* * *

Yuui stumbled out of the car and onto hard ground. He had only been in Indonesia for three hours, and he'd already learned one very definite, very sure, and very unchanging fact: He did not handle the tropic heat well. _At all._ Yuui was built for the cold, and therefore, not for extreme heat of this…extremity.

Doumeki jumped nimbly out two seconds after, and caught Yuui by the arm, guiding him into the cooler shade of the lobby. Their feet hit the deep wooden floor. Watanuki followed not too long after, as well. Yuui shook his hair out, splashing the air with saltwater drops of pure sweat. He breathed in and out slowly.

He managed to straighten his body out in time to see Yuuko Ichihara heading to them at a leisurely pace, her Kate Spade dress billowing slightly at the skirt. For some odd reason, Yuui always had expected the infamous Yuuko Ichihara to be unaffected by cold, heat, wind, sun and otherwise. And his expectations were true, apparently. Her sleek coal-black hair was dry of perspiration; her straight bangs lay heavy and dark; her full, neat lips were slightly glossed; her pale, thin limbs somehow floated; her body bounced enough, and yet was tighter than a taut rubber band, and her magnificent lashes framed her even more unattainable eyes. She was perfect.

"You don't look well, poor darling," she coed, stroking through Yuui's hair. You could tell she was enjoying it. Her other hand stroked his cheek, moving down his throat and arm. Well, yes. You could definitely tell she liked molesting beautiful high school boys. Not that Yuui minded much. Yuuko was perfectly gorgeous. She was ageless—timeless; she didn't change with time…time changed with _her_. You could never hazard a guess if she was twenty, or thirty, or even forty. She didn't seem like she was the kind of weak mortal to be affected by something as trivial as _age_.

It was a bit disturbing.

"He's hot," Doumeki said, as Watanuki sort of…stared.

"Is he, now?" Yuuko tilted her head to face level with Yuui and smiled. She leaned forward slightly and her full lips brushed his—she tasted as exotic as the country they were in. "Good boy." She gave a lock of his hair one last gentle tug, before tossing her hair back. "Now, I still have to wait until the rest of my lovely guests arrive, so you'll have to wait here in the lobby until they do. You're free to join that happy couple over there." She gestured where Fuuma and Kamui were sitting on one of the long cushioned benches that were pushed against the lobby wall—they boys sat on either edge. Kamui looked like he was sulking heavily.

"I think we'll do that," Yuui said cautiously. "Come on, Doumeki."

Watanuki glared behind his glasses. "You don't have to order him around like that. He knows how to walk." Yuui only turned to glare at him right back—a glare dangerous enough to send Watanuki reeling back a few steps. He waited until Yuui was sitting beside Kamui and attempting to make the journalist smile. Doumeki just sat on what resembled a bongo drum, and stared at Watanuki.

Watanuki felt something glimmer behind him. "Careful, W," something so light and airy whispered, it couldn't have possibly been a voice.

"What did you call me?" He turned. No one was there. He shook his head and went to join the others.

* * *

Rooms List

Room 1, East Wing: Seishiro Sakurazuka and Subaru Sumeragi

Room 2, East Wing: Amaterasu Daidoji, and Tomoyo Daidoji

Room 3, East Wing: Mioru Aoi and Yuui Fluorite

Room 4, East Wing: Touya Kinomoto and Yukito Tsukishiro

Room 5, East Wing: Fai Fluorite and Ashura Ou

Room 1, West Wing: Shizuka Doumeki and Kimihiro Watanuki

Room 2, West Wing: Kamui Sumeragi and Fuuma Sakurazuka

Room 3, 4, 5 West Wing: Myself

Aren't I just lovely?

* * *

Subaru's eyes hadn't been closed for very long when he opened them to the muted sunlight—the curtains were still drawn. The International Dateline had done some extensive damage on everyone's sleeping schedules. Most of them had been lucky enough to have already done some worldwide music programs to know how to get used to jet lag. Subaru had only done it twice to Europe.

But that wasn't the main reason why he hadn't been able to fall asleep as well as he might have hoped for. The main reason was because of the person sleeping in the bed beside him—naked. Since when had Seishiro started sleeping naked? No, actually, Subaru could think of exactly why the Maestro would start such a habit, and it only made the trumpeter want to switch roommates even more.

_Why_ had Yuuko done this? Was the whole roommates situation some sort of perverse game of hers? It wasn't funny. Not at all.

The bundle of silk blankets stirred. Subaru slept shirtless—like most—but he wouldn't dare sleep naked. Especially in a scenario like this. Plus, it was Seishiro. There was nothing to impress the Maestro that Subaru had beneath his clothes. But the trumpeter's heart still raced frantically when Seishiro's dark head emerged from the tangle and the sleepy eyes blinked at him. The Maestro smiled. "Good morning. Sleep well?"

"Relatively."

"To what?" Seishiro slowly kicked down his blankets and extricated himself from the other side of the bed—the side that Subaru couldn't see. The conductor stretched with his back turned and then ambled off—naked—toward Subaru's bed. He sat down on the side—naked. He also knelt forward—naked—and kissed Subaru long and slow on the lips. "I don't think they'll miss us at brunch," he said, smiling frighteningly. "Besides, I need something to wake me up. How about you?"

Subaru knew he shouldn't. It was laid out for him as clear as day—he knew he shouldn't. He didn't know exactly if he really wanted to or not, but he knew that he should not have sex with Seishiro. Right or wrong was vague, and so was his desire, but whether he should or should not was obvious. He could already see Kamui's pitying eyes, Yuui's knowing smirk…the faux kindness in Seishiro's face.

But it wasn't like Seishiro was giving him a choice. The conductor had already gone on ahead and was unrelentingly kissing Subaru. He made sure their lips never left the other's body. Even this early in the morning, and even in the villa room, it was still warm. Seishiro's fingers stroked up and down Subaru's bare chest. He rested his head on Subaru's stomach. But he didn't do anything further.

"Seishiro," Subaru said quietly. He carefully sunk his fingertips into the thick mess of dark hair—the strands curled around his hand, absorbing it softly.

"I'll get to it," he felt the Maestro murmur into his skin. "Just…wait. Let me…just let me stay like this for a few minutes. Please."

"You don't have to…do it," Subaru whispered. "I don't care."

Seishiro was silent for a moment. "No. I do. I have to. I'm the Maestro." The trumpeter felt familiar fingers weave through his free hand, holding it tightly. Subaru wrapped his arm around Seishiro's bare shoulders, and closed his eyes against the dark hair.

* * *

"No," Yuui said flatly. He smiled.

"Why not?" Mioru's hands trapped the pianist against a column of the villa's terrace. The view faced the ocean, which was beautiful and shit, but currently, Yuui was trying to fend off a rather stubborn sophomore prat, who thought he was apparently worthy enough to sleep with Yuui.

They'd just had brunch, and Yuui was feeling cooled down enough to go for a swim at the Grand Hyatt or down to the beach. However, Yuui was not cooled down enough—nor would ever be cooled down enough—to sleep with a sophomore like Mioru Aoi, who was known as the biggest prick in all of…the world. Give the kid a few years, and it would be in the Milky Way.

"Because if this," Yuui gestured the cornering method Mioru had decided to instigate, "is your way of seducing someone, then I don't know why you're even trying. I may be a slut, but I'm a slut with good taste, and if I slept with you that would be ruined, wouldn't it? Now, if you'll excuse—"

"Sleep with me," Mioru growled.

"What part of no isn't, y'know," Yuui smiled patronizingly, "computing in your asshole mind?"

"All of it." One of Mioru's hands slid down and grabbed Yuui's crotch roughly—tight and suddenly enough so that it almost hurt. Yuui jerked instinctively and went to slap it away, but Mioru's one hand was large enough to hold both of Yuui's wrists.

Yuui laughed. "Let the hell go of me. Are you seriously going to try and rape me? Last time I heard, you're a total bottom. Do you even know how to top?"

"You talk way too much," Mioru said. "We're roomies, now, remember? Even if I don't get it now, you know I'll get it—"

"You aren't getting anything," Yuui sighed with a smile. "Nothing. At least not from me. Seishiro might have seen something in you that he actually slept with you, but then, he's the Maestro. He sleeps with everyone. I, however, have this policy on not sleeping with _complete_ assholes. Besides, I'm in a relationship."

Mioru snorted, taking his hands away from the pianist. "That relationship is about as real as Ichihara's tits."

"How would you know?"

"How would _you_?"

The musician shrugged. "I'm Yuui Fluorite. Now seriously, get away from me. By the way," Yuui held up one finger, as he walked down the breezy open hall—and away from Mioru, "rape doesn't count as sex, so even if you had gotten lucky with me, it wouldn't have meant anything but some court time and a few days behind bars."

"My father wouldn't—" Mioru began in a shout.

"Neither would my guardian," Yuui sang, laughing as he turned the corner. "Be a good little boy and go back to your boy toy, Aoi. Little rabbits only get eaten when they play with wolves."

* * *

Doumeki leaned against the wooden column of the villa, half hidden by it, but exposed enough so that someone watching would be able to see him, and he them. He himself was already doing some watching—or stalking, as he knew Yuui would most definitely put it. He'd come out directly after they'd returned from driving around and sightseeing when brunch was done. Half of the others had chosen to remain out and about for dinner, but Touya, Yukito, Watanuki, and himself had returned.

Doumeki tilted his head as he looked down on the immaculate sight of Watanuki with mildly surprised eyes, as he watched Yukito dive with a dancer's grace into the lit pool. The sky was already beginning to darken at the horizon, meaning the chlorinated water was filled with the yellowish glow of a dozen bulbous lights embedded into the tiled walls. Touya had gone back immediately to his room without a word. He hadn't come out since.

Even when the sky was a rich navy, and the small stars twinkled back down, the wind was as warm as a blanket around Doumeki's bare shoulders. It was true that the mornings and afternoons were swelteringly hot, but at night it was almost nice to be able to walk around half-naked and still be perfectly fine. Watanuki was engrossed in watching Yukito perform aquatic amazements that only someone with a dancer regimen could perform. But of course, Doumeki rather watched Watanuki.

There was something that Watanuki possessed that—as ridiculous as it might sound—Yuui didn't. Watanuki was…how should it be said…humble? Modest? It didn't quite sound right when those words were used, but something along those lines. Yuui _just didn't know_ when to quit. Doumeki was pretty sure the Fluorite twins had never been taught how to draw a line—instead, Rondart had probably just encouraged them on. But Watanuki had it almost inborn into him.

Yuui was…nice—really, he was—but Doumeki could never recall a moment when Yuui admired someone else beside himself. Doumeki had the feeling that Yuui loved himself a little too much than was normal or healthy for the musician. Although, Doumeki knew that someday he'd have to thank him for not allowing Doumeki to make the second biggest mistake of his life and fall in love with the junior.

Doumeki shifted his weight from one foot to the other and raised his eyebrows as he saw Yukito meet his gaze. The dancer smiled from down below at the pool area and waved one hand, gesturing for Doumeki to join them. Doumeki could see Watanuki turn his direction as well. The goalie's expression was already hard to see through the dark, but from where he stood, Doumeki could hazard a good guess and say that his childhood friend wasn't happy with him.

Another good thing about being at the villa in this kind of weather was that you didn't have to wear shoes either. Doumeki pretty much went barefoot all day long, except when they went out—then, he either had to wear shoes or risk stepping on various kinds of pollution and probably some of the natives' trampled offerings for their religion. He skidded down the small bump of a hill and flinched only slightly at trying to steady himself on the wet pavement closer to the pool—the Jacuzzi gurgled only a few feet away.

Watanuki sat—still fully clothed—on one of the poolside chairs. He glanced up at Doumeki. The striker ignored him and kept his eyes firmly on Yukito. The dancer held up a slender hand. "Help me out? I can't really see much, since I don't have my contacts in. I'm too used to wearing glasses."

Doumeki wrapped his large hand around the slick small one. It was stronger than he'd expected—which, now that he thought about it, he should've. A dancer couldn't just have flimsy, weak limbs—especially considering the type of dancing Yukito ranged in.

Yukito shook his hair out of his eyes and accepted the glasses Watanuki held out to him. "Thank you." Yukito smiled up at the striker. "So, did you have dinner yet? I noticed you'd been watching us for some time."

Doumeki nodded.

"At least answer him with your voice, idiot," Watanuki said irritably.

Yukito laughed, grabbing one of the fluffy white towels that were set on a nearby table by the pool staff. "No, it's okay. I get the feeling that you understand him without any speech after a while. It means you two are real friends, right? I need to go now anyway—before my roommate decides to suffocate himself." He waved a hand amiably as he walked away.

Doumeki glanced back at Watanuki. Watanuki pushed up his glasses and raised an eyebrow. "Well?" the goalie asked. Doumeki blinked. Watanuki tilted his head to one side and shrugged. "So how come Yuui isn't with you?"

"Just 'cause we're together doesn't mean we have to be with each other twenty-four hours, seven days a week," Doumeki heard himself snap. Watanuki's eyebrows flew, and he stood up to stand face level with the striker.

"I never said that. I just always thought that maybe when you got someone, someone like you would stand up for yourself instead of being pushed around by a slut," Watanuki snapped back. He took a step forward. Doumeki did the same.

"He's not a slut."

"Then do enlighten me," Watanuki said sarcastically, "What do you call a sixteen-year-old person who's slept with enough men and women to fill a classroom in the span of about four years? Because I'd call it a slut, how about you?"

"You don't even know him. You've never even talked to him." Doumeki's voice began to rise a little in tone.

Watanuki took another three steps. They were now chest-to-chest, facing off like an extremely unoriginal scene of angry athletes—tall, muscular, young, virile, and volatile. "Oh, now that's wrong. I _have_ talked to him. I talked to him at Mioru's party, and I wish so badly that I never had. He's probably the biggest twat in the world. He's a _jerk_, Doumeki."

"It's nice to hear how nonjudgmental you are."

Watanuki shoved Doumeki back by the shoulders. Doumeki's eyebrows furrowed and he returned with a shove of his own. Watanuki thwacked him on the head—with boys like these, a thwack isn't funny, my dears: It _hurts_. Doumeki swung his arm around Watanuki's neck, and began to strangle him. Watanuki thrust his knee into Doumeki's stomach, and then they were off. Kicking, punching, yelling, sometimes biting, pulling, pushing, shoving, and yanking. It went on and on, on the pavement until one errant shove landed both of them in the water with an ungainly splash.

"SHIT!" Watanuki half-screamed. He shoved himself away from Doumeki, who instead of flailing around like a normal person who'd just fallen involuntarily into a pool would do, simply swam in a calm manner to the edge of the pool, and hoisted himself up. Watanuki spat water out of his mouth and somehow managed to gather himself quickly enough before drowning, and followed Doumeki's lead. The t-shirt on the goalie was soaked to him like a second skin, and Doumeki couldn't help but stare. Sure, they'd known how the other looked naked from the locker rooms (they were on the same team, after all) but seeing it out of school connotations made it more…exciting…

And hot.

Watanuki spat another gallon of water from his nose and shook his hair out of his glasses. He stripped off his shirt and placed the spectacles gently on top of the wet heap. Then, he turned to yell at Doumeki some more. Which, well, would've been easier if Doumeki weren't, y'know, kissing him. And the whole kissing thing would've gone a whole lot smoother—Watanuki could've ended with a single punch—if…well…Watanuki wasn't sort of liking it.

It wasn't like kissing a girl—which Watanuki had done a considerable amount of before. Girls were always usually nervous and you could feel that they were shy during the first kiss—unless she was a major slut, or older than you by a ways—and even if Watanuki might be nervous or shy, he had to lead, because the girl sure as hell wouldn't.

Doumeki however…Watanuki could tell so clearly and easily that he knew what he was doing. With a girl, he could never be sure if she wanted him to kiss her, but Doumeki obviously did want it, and he showed it—he made sure Watanuki _knew_ that. Instead of a soft, tiny hand hesitantly reaching up to touch his cheek, it was a large, slightly callused—nevertheless, _warm_—hand that wrapped around his nape and secured his lips to remain where they were, and another same hand that grabbed a fistful of his wet hair.

Doumeki sighed into Watanuki's mouth, and Watanuki felt the need for more. More…something. More anything. Doumeki's hands trailed along the line of the goalie's waistband, fingers digging into the skin. All thoughts rational in Watanuki's mind were represented only by one single "HELL NO" that was slowly ebbing away itself. No matter what they taught you in third grade about "just saying no" to drugs, sex, and alcohol—because apparently, mentality was supposed to be stronger than physicality—was really a bunch of bullshit in situations like this. Physicality had so much power of mentality it wasn't even funny.

It took Watanuki at least three minutes to accumulate enough willpower to pull away—and by then, they were on one of the chairs with both of their pants hanging on to their bodies by a thread, and Doumeki's body was on top of Watanuki's. The goalie stared up at his childhood friend, gasping and panting. Doumeki's expression, even now, was still the same as a rock's. They were both hard as steel. "Get off me," Watanuki whispered. Doumeki rolled off of him.

Watanuki sat up and scrambled around for his glasses, shoving them on roughly. He sighed into his hands and swept the disheveled hair out of his face. He glanced at Doumeki who was straightening the towels and table they'd knocked around in their haphazardness. "Am I gay?" Watanuki asked him.

Doumeki stopped and raised his head. "Are you?"

"I don't know."

"Figure it out, then." Doumeki hitched a towel over his bare shoulder, not bothering to hike up his pants—even though they were low enough to show the beginnings of a single line of symmetry at the smallest of his back. Watanuki stared at it incredulously. "And don't take too long," the striker said as he retreated toward the main gathering room.

Watanuki watched him leave. But the goalie could've sworn he saw a swish of long, pitch-black hair wave through the bushes and behind a column. And crazier still, he might even have sworn he heard an accompanying melodious female laugh.

* * *

"Touya?" Yukito knocked on the bathroom door—or rather, one of the bathroom doors, as the "bathroom" split off into three different directions; one leading off into a room just for the pool-sized bathtub, the second sectioning off toward the shower, and the third toward the toilet and mirrors. Yukito surmised that Touya would be in the shower since that was the only door behind which Yukito could hear running water. "You've been in there for a while, haven't you?"

Of course there was no answer. You rarely answered a question posed while you were in the shower. Yukito sighed, one of his arms coming across his front body, holding on to his other forearm. "You should eat something…okay?" He waited for a few seconds, spirits rising slightly when he heard some sort of a grunt come through the door. "Talk with me?" he asked quietly, his head leaning back on the hard, white surface that separated them. "Talk with me, okay? Please."

Yukito didn't receive another answer. He smiled sadly and made to walk away. And then a dripping wet hand grabbed him. He was spun around, and found himself colliding body to body with Touya—wet, naked, and the cold mist from the shower echoing out around him. Touya scowled. "What do we need to talk about?"

"Sakura," Yukito said, gently yanking himself away. "And you got me wet."

"Then I'd guess we'd better take care of that," Touya grinned down at the space below Yukito's waist. Yukito's eyes widened with incredulous hilarity and pulled away before Touya could grab him—and once that happened, the dancer could forget all hope of being let go of.

"Not like that," Yukito laughed, folding his now-wet arms. "Touya. Really, you have to listen. I think Sakura's going to break up with me."

Touya stared back with curious eyes. "Is that…bad news?"

"That's the good news," Yukito said, smiling sadly still. "The bad news is the reason I think she's going to break up with me when we get back."

"Which is…?"

"She's likes Fuuka Li," Yukito waited for the explosion. Which never really came. Touya just sort of stood there…and stared with the perma-scowl he usually had on when thinking of Sakura and boys in the same thought.

Touya exhaled grumpily and then went to dry his hair, moving to stand in front of the bathroom counter, his eyes focused on his reflection. Yukito quietly walked toward him, one hand reaching to touch the skin between the soccer player's shoulder blades. "Do you care?"

"My little sister likes a druggie, and is probably sucking face with him right now, and hopefully nothing else that involves Li's dick and her twat," Touya spat. "Of course I care. I don't get why she can't just date the other twin, if she has to like anyone. Syaoran's on my team so I can keep an eye on the brat, and plus, he doesn't sniff crystal—or whatever you're supposed to do with the crap."

"He did go to rehab, you know." Yukito slowly glided his palms over Touya's shoulders and down the soccer player's arms, fingers entwining once his hands met Touya's own. "For a long time. And I haven't ever seen him even take a drink. He's probably a good kid."

Touya spun around, and scowled deeper as he absentmindedly rested his hands on Yukito's hips. "That's great. Really it is. If he's such a good kid, then he can be her bestest friend ever and Sakura can join a convent. Or date a kid who doesn't abuse illegal substances."

"_We_ abuse illegal substances."

"But we don't get sent to rehab."

"Because _we're_ lucky," Yukito said softly. "It doesn't necessarily mean he's a bad kid. He just wasn't as lucky as we are—and he was younger than we were. He probably didn't even know what he was getting into."

Touya snorted. "Well, so what're we going to do about the good news?"

Yukito raised his eyebrows. "What do you feel like doing?"

Touya looked down and then back, taking off Yukito's glasses. "Fucking you."

"Sounds good," the dancer smiled, and leaned up to kiss him.

So, King T, how come Princess S can't date an ex-druggie, but you can fuck her future ex-boyfriend into the bed until it creaks and I have to get the walls re-plastered?

* * *

_A/N: Okay, so before anything, those hotels in Indonesia that I mentioned are actually real, and I would know since they're the same hotels that me and my family went to whenever we go to Bali---because, yes, I am Indonesian. Which is also why I chose Bali (which is indeed a famous tourist place, considerably) as the location for "things" to happen. Furthermore, all that stuff about the heat is also true, and most of the setting opinions are going to have been based off my own opinions of the heat and bugs and pollution. (Although, my extended family lives in Jakarta, the capital, and the pollution there is a million times worse). But, despite all that, I still love going there--once I get past the jet lag, heat, humidity and my hair frizzing because of it, time difference, no computer (and thus no fanfiction), and having to switch to my other language. _

_Oh, and I still sound (as my friend says) like a duck, and get minor headaches throughout the day. Although, that isn't nearly as bad as one of my guy friends who passed out in his bathroom while brushing his teeth, and my other friend who was in bed from Saturday and just came back to school on Friday, yesterday, and told me she only left the bed that whole week for a total of ten hours. Accumulated, including the times she took showers and stuff. Basically, my entire grade is still very, very ill--two of my teachers even caught it--and I spent the days I did go to school, half-dead and sleeping on my water bottle. It's all been very pleasant._

_Anyhoo....it's a long chapter....so...maybe....long reviews? 0_0_


	21. Nightlife

Chapter Twenty: Nightlife

Kamui glided his fingers over the glossy photographs spread messily out on the huge wooden dining table. The photo spread had taken up all of yesterday, and they'd been called in to Yuuko's basement studio in small groups of three and two. Most of them were down there at least five different times during the day. The actual photographs that were to be used for the spread were in Yuuko's master laptop and then saved again in at least three of her many assorted thumb drives. But she'd printed the ones chosen so that they could look at them—as if she'd allow anyone to touch her equipment.

He'd never before seen a photograph of anyone he knew done by Yuuko, but now he knew why she didn't hire her own photographer, and why her magazine photo spreads were as famous as the articles themselves. He didn't have a clue how Yuuko managed it, but somehow—some _way_—she was able to capture the truth of everyone in that one picture…in that one pose and position…with the clothes she chose for them to wear…the setting…just everything, really.

It was like all the secrets they'd kept were in vain once these pictures were developed and done. Everything was revealed in them—without a single word…everything was there. Yuuko had said that the pictures would be on the dining table until tomorrow morning for any of them to look at if they felt like it. Dinner had already been eaten, which meant until breakfast, the table would be occupied with the pictures.

The pictures weren't in any order on the table—just randomly spread all over. But the ones of certain people were all together, and everyone had at least one photo by themselves, and a few photos with some others. Kamui gazed at the ones with the Fluorite twins—Fai and Yuui taken in the villa's sunroom. The two had been put into not identical, but similar sort of beach clothes—white t-shirts and airy linen pants.

Fai was sitting on a wicker ottoman, his head thrown back, and his mouth open in a laugh. Yuui sat on the wooden floor, facing toward Fai, one leg propped up and a lively smile on his face as he watched his brother. It was brilliant photography on Yuuko's part—perfection in the way she'd told them to wear their expressions. To any outsider who would be reading this magazine—the socialite children weren't the only ones, as there were some normal civilians who read it, too—it would look like a simple (and amazing) photo of a pair of twin brothers, who just happened to be paranormally beautiful, laughing and enjoying life in general together.

To Kamui, it looked like a picture of complete sibling tragedy. Yes, Fai's stance…his laugh was so full of life, that it was almost like you nearly expected to hear his laughter ringing like bells in your ear. But Kamui could see the infinitesimal way his shoulders were hunched, the forced way his mouth was parted in that almost painful laugh—even a bit cynical. And Yuui. Yuui looked exactly the way he'd been coming off to Kamui. Guilty. Guilty for everything that'd happened to Fai—and it showed in the way he smiled at the violinist in the photo. As though he wished so dearly—so hard—for his brother to actually be able to laugh like that.

Kamui put the photograph down and moved on to the next piece. A picture that was so filled with…well…filled to the brim with potential disaster, that the writer was shocked how none had yet struck. It was Fai, and Ashura and Yuui. Altogether in one set. Really, this was what Yuuko was infamous for. In the photo, Ashura was sitting at an easel, supposedly painting the twins—Fai and Yuui were spread out on a mess of Batik blankets out on the wooden floor before the artist.

There was a smile on Ashura's face, but Kamui could see that his smile wasn't focused on either of the twins—and neither were his eyes. No. Instead, to the writer—who knew the people in his life like he could dissect his own characters—Ashura looked as if he was trying to choose. Trying to decide which twin—which one should I love? Which one _do_ I love?

"Are they any good?"

Kamui turned halfway, still holding the photograph. Fuuma stood in the double doorway that led in from the pool's patio. He stood in his swimming trunks, dripping chlorinated water from ever contour of his body. The writer tried to look away, but he couldn't help but notice how low the trunks were hanging. "The pictures, you mean? Of course. She's brilliant."

Fuuma began walking, and said, "I haven't seen them yet."

"Do you want to take a look?" Kamui held the photo up, as the soccer player reached him. Fuuma took the picture and looked at it briefly—three seconds at best—and tossed it back onto the table with a face of mock boredom.

"Now," Fuuma said, half laughing at the look of indignation on the writer's face, "Let's look at something _hotter_, shall we?" He seemed to whip one of the photos of Kamui and Subaru from thin air. "Ah. Perfect, wouldn't you say?"

But for a change, Kamui didn't scream at him. He looked at the photograph, one hand subconsciously sliding up onto Fuuma's broad shoulder. Kamui and Subaru were poised differently from Fai and Yuui—a more appropriate setting for their dark appearance had been chosen as the pool. Or rather, _in the pool_.

Kamui distinctly remembered being woken up before the sun had risen, and being stripped and then shoved in to the freezing water, and then watched Subaru being thrown in as well. It was a miracle that the photograph turned out like it did—it was more of a miracle that they didn't look as stupid as they'd felt, three-quarters naked, half-awake, and drenched wet. Yuuko had apparently thought that it would look better if the Sumeragi twins looked royally pissed in their sibling photograph…and…well…it did. "I look like a drowned cat," Kamui said.

Fuuma moved his eyebrows up and down. "Nah. And even if you did, you'd be the most fuckable drowned cat I've ever seen. But it…kind of works—weirdly enough. The whole what-the-hell look you two have got going on. She's smart to have known that."

Yuuko was. She'd told the writer and trumpeter to angle themselves towards each other—and to make sure they were both slicked completely with water, and then she'd had them slicked with a bit of oil—and have their backs almost facing the shot. It'd been a slight angle shot, and with the sky barely light and the signature large, immature eyes, it made Kamui and Subaru look like tragic water children at the start of the world. "You can see the difference, can't you?" Kamui asked quietly, looking up into Fuuma's face—gauging his expression.

"I can," Fuuma agreed in an echo of that quiet tone. He looked down at Kamui over the signature tea-shade sunglasses, but the writer had already looked away. Kamui continued to stare as hard as he could—keeping his eyes firmly planted—on the table of pictures. He was scared shitless of the look he'd glimpsed on Fuuma's face. He'd already rejected the athlete…hadn't he? That time at his house…that was a rejection, right? It had to be…

Kamui didn't think he'd be able to repeat those words. It wasn't something he could manage more than once. It had to be completed successfully on the first try, meaning that had to be a rejection. It just had to be. "What's the difference?"

"Subaru's hurt is _there_." Fuuma put the picture down, and slid one of his hands casually into the left pocket of his trunks. "You can see it—you can see what he's feeling. You…on the other hand…" Fuuma smiled strangely. Kamui felt something burn just beneath the surface of his face. "I'm not going to say it isn't completely obvious to me what you're feeling…but…unlike Subaru…when you try to hide it…you try way _too _hard."

Kamui looked away. "Everyone tries their hardest to make sure no one can see how they really feel. What makes it any different for me?"

The writer felt Fuuma's hand come down on his hair, the fingers gripping slightly, and the athlete said in a hushed tone, his lips against Kamui's ear, "You try so hard it looks like it hurts _more_ than whatever you're hiding."

Fuuma's hand had started to drift to the back of Kamui's neck—the junior slapped it away and backtracked until there was at least a foot between them. "Don't touch me," Kamui said, breathing hard. His heart had thudded forward with a surge of speed and he didn't even now how it could've gotten started that quickly. Just one touch—one bit of skin contact.

And even though Kamui knew that—without medical assistance—no one could hear your heart except for you yourself, he was starting to doubt that scientific fact. Fuuma began to cover the distance between them, cornering Kamui into the crevice in the wall right before the doorway that lead into the sunroom. "Really?" Fuuma's smile had almost completely faded. "Is that _really_ what you want?"

Kamui's lips parted…so slowly and hesitantly, it was like a strip of footage slowed to the minimal movement. His eyebrows had risen in the middle, and had Fuuma known any better, the athlete would've thought that the writer was about to start crying. "I don't want to want you," Kamui whispered—Fuuma had to lean in and strain his ears in order to hear. The journalist's voice was that soft.

"But do you?" Fuuma persisted quietly.

Kamui's eyes shot open and he stared up at the freshman. The writer shook his head profusely, his eyes clenching shut, and his teeth visibly pressed together as if he was resisting the immense need to speak. "Do you?" Fuuma asked again, his hands gripping Kamui on either forearm.

Kamui looked at Fuuma one more time—terror, and need and want and so much more—before he tore himself out of Fuuma's grip and ran outward. Out to the patio. Fuuma's eyes followed him. Fuuma's feet began to move—almost without his permission. They followed Kamui. After that…after Fuuma's tainted gold eyes caught the slim figure, the ruffle of wind playing with the tousled dark hair…everything followed like a movie. Like both boys weren't even part of what happened next.

Fuuma's hand curled its fingers over Kamui's thin elbow, pulling the writer around and tipping his face up so their lips met. Kamui's arms fell at his sides limply—the writer simply stood there, face tilted upward, lips moving with Fuuma's, and the athlete's arm around his slender waist, and his other hand immersed in the junior's hair.

"Stop," Kamui whispered, when Fuuma paused to take a breath. But Fuuma soon pressed his lips back onto Kamui's mouth. Kamui shoved at Fuuma's chest uselessly. "Get _off_." Fuuma's arm was like an iron vice around the writer's waist. "Fuuma—shit, seriously—_wait_—just—FUCK—" Kamui shouted, as he knocked Fuuma into the water. Kamui cautiously went to stand at the edge of the pool when the splash had quieted and there was no emergence. "Fuuma—what the—"

A hand grabbed Kamui's ankle and yanked him into the water. The angle he was pulled left no chance for injury, but then again, it left Kamui no chance to save himself by holding onto the edge, either. It was just pure fate that Kamui was already wearing his own swimming trunks and no sandals—although his shirt was now going to be a bundle of damp mush. Kamui thought he'd hit the bottom of the deep end and possibly run out of air before he managed to regain himself, but strong arms caught him almost immediately and tossed him lightly back up.

Kamui blinked away the water, and tried to breathe as normally as he could—which would've worked out better if Fuuma didn't have both arms trapping Kamui against the pool's underwater ledge, and if the soccer player didn't have his head thrown back laughing. "What the fuck, Fuuma?" Kamui yelled, slightly hysterical.

Fuuma stopped laughing long enough to look at Kamui with his eyes like dark pools of syrup. "I was just kidding—it was a joke, okay?" Fuuma reached up to touch Kamui's cheek, but the writer leaned away, grey-blue eyes furious.

"I thought you were seriously going to do something to me." Kamui hiked himself up onto the edge of the pool, keeping his legs in the water, and stripping off his wet shirt. He wrapped his hands around himself and slowly slid back into the warm water. The only lights that penetrated the dark were the bulbous underwater lights, and the faint glows from the villa.

The writer watched Fuuma's face—watched as that smile…that certain, strange, almost sincere smile that Fuuma always seemed to reserve especially for Kamui, watched as it came onto the athlete's face. That smile where one side of Fuuma's mouth pulled up into a half-grin, and his eyebrows peaked at the center. "Never," Fuuma said quietly. He kissed Kamui briefly on the lips, and then pulled himself out of the pool.

Kamui spun around so fast, he almost lost grip of the ledge and fell back in. "Where're you going? Why…" It just didn't make sense to him. Fuuma would make-out with him like that—practically assault him to a point where Kamui wouldn't have been surprised if he'd been raped, and then just—just sort of…walk away.

Fuuma grinned—almost sadly…resignedly—from where he stood at the double doorway into the villa. "See you 'round, Kamui."

Kamui could only float there and watch Fuuma walking in to the soft illumination of the villa lights—watch him walk with a heavier gait toward the stairs that led up to the set of rooms. The writer covered his face with a wet hand. "Shit," he said into his palm, eyes huge. "Shit. I hurt him."

* * *

Ashura went in to the living room—slowly step by step. His eyes found the mess of pale blond hair above the edge of one of the Batik covered sofas. The envelope in his pocket seemed to weight a thousand pounds, but he had to do it. He had to do it soon, before he was too caught up in Fai to remember. "Yuui?"

The mop of hair jerked and turned around. Yuui was curled up in one corner of the settee and he had a long sarong cocooning his minimized body like a kidnapping sack. The pianist's eyes tiredly took Ashura in, and a smile forced itself onto the musician's face. "Hi, Ashura. What's up?"

Yuui's…his entire being looked so completely limp…lifeless that Ashura almost wheeled all the way back around and walked out. He wanted to throttle Karen. There were at least twenty-two reasons why this wouldn't work, and one of them was the fact that Yuui loved Fai more than he'd ever love Ashura, and that was really how it was supposed to stay.

And even if Ashura did love Yuui…he'd be betraying Fai. Ashura couldn't love Yuui. First, Ashura had to—needed to—figure out Fai. Yuui was more complex than Fai, and if the artist couldn't decipher one brother, he'd have no chance of even getting near the other. Both of them were keeping something from him, and Ashura was going to know. Ashura was going to help them—even if he couldn't do anything about whatever secret they kept, Ashura would certainly keep it for them.

He was just too intrigued to back away at this point.

Ashura took a seat opposing Yuui, and returned the smile. The artist had always wanted to draw Yuui. He'd only ever drawn Fai, which anyone would probably have thought was well and good since they were identical twins—down to the very last strand of hair. But they weren't. Yuui was different. And so was Fai. They had different allures. Different ways of holding themselves up. It was a subtle difference only an artist could notice.

"I have to give you something," Ashura said quietly. "You know the rules."

"What is it?" Yuui let his head hang to the side, resting on the soft cushion behind his back.

"My task. It involves you. So…I got another copy from Karen—this is your copy. You need to burn it after you read it. Please." Ashura took out the envelope and handed it to Yuui. "You can refuse, if you want. I'll understand."

Yuui gingerly accepted the envelope, and stumbled with opening it—it was odd. He usually did everything with grace and elegance reincarnate. Everything was beautiful when he did it—everything was like a performance. But now…in front of Ashura…it was like everything was coming undone. Ashura's eyes were _on_ him—they were alone. He glanced down to read the letter:

_Darling, Ashura…how are you? I never did have a chance to properly thank you. I would love to thank you now, but now wouldn't be a time for expressing gratitude. Right now, I have to deliver business. The business of choosing someone to take the place I'll leave when I graduate from dear Akamizu. And darling, I've chosen you._

_Now, here's what you have to do—listen closely, all right, darling? It's simple. Simple as walking, if you follow my instructions._

_Acquire these materials: An empty DVD, a camcorder, and a bedroom._

_Then, sleep with Yuui Fluorite._

_You must be wondering at this point…why? Why would Karen Kasumi—the socialite princess—why would the task she assigns me be something as ordinary, and clichéd as sleeping with the brother of my current boyfriend?_

_Darling, every task must have a point, a cause—you must understand that rule._

_And mine has an important one—a valuable one:_

_To have been born as what we are—as whom we are—it can happen because fate springs a lucky star over our heads before we're fetuses in our mothers' wombs. But to earn whom we are—to earn what we are for ourselves…well…that's a little bit harder, now, isn't it? _

_You have to want it—you have to want it more than anything in the world. More than whom you love, more than hurting anyone, or more than comforting them or staying loyal to them. Because if they want to be with you—they'll have to understand, and understand that secrets will be kept, intrigue will allure without forgiveness, and impulses never die. They must. Otherwise, you can't be with them. _

_So prove to me, darling—prove to yourself…do you want it? _

Yuui thought he might actually die—he really did believe he could've had some sort of instantaneous heart attack and die right there and then. This was Ashura's task? Karen Kasumi had given Ashura Ou the task of cheating on Fai Fluorite with Yuui? Well, there had always been a reason Karen was the princess of the socialites. At this rate, she'd become the queen.

And Yuui would be the first one to hail her at the coronation. He looked up at Ashura. The artist's dark eyes were waiting to measure Yuui's reaction. Yuui didn't quite now how to react—if at all. He would…have to…sleep with Ashura? Do something that was in his wildest dreams only? Only…only this would be real. Yuui could really be with Ashura—could really touch his face, and kiss him, and hold him and—

And Yuui could really be the worst brother ever—could betray Fai.

"You don't have to tell me now," Ashura said softly, still smiling. He stood up and walked past Yuui, walked out the door.

Yuui held the letter in loose fingers—he felt numb. What was he supposed to do? What did he want to do? Should he…no, he couldn't. That one was certainly out of the question—whatever decision he made, he couldn't tell Fai. It was forbidden. If he told Fai—it didn't matter if they were brothers, it didn't matter at all—he'd be breaking the rules, and he would probably die a social death, and bring Karen and Ashura along with him. And the higher they were, the harder they fell. In that case, it was a long way down for all three of them.

Meaning there was absolutely no one. No one he could talk to, and no one he could discuss it with. Not even Kamui. Just Ashura and Karen—and he hardly knew the latter, and Ashura wouldn't be useful at all. Ashura was just…Ashura was just the complete ruin of Yuui and Fai. That was all the artist would serve to be.

Yuui looked at the letter. He inhaled deeply and let the air out slowly. First things first—he had to get rid of the letter. Preferably incinerating it into ashes. He would do that tonight before he went up to his room since his roommate was a total asshole. Next. Next…next he would…he'd have to think on this one a bit more. The one thing that killed him the most was that he had no one to talk about this to—he was completely, and utterly on his own. At this rate, it wasn't just Ashura who had a task to complete. It was Yuui, too.

But really, how was he supposed to…was…was there even an actual _right_ choice in this situation? Was he supposed to choose Fai, his brother who gave _everything_ to him, or was he supposed to choose Ashura, whom he wanted to give everything _to_?

When it was spread out like that…the choice was obvious—the right choice. But, Yuui laughed to himself, pulling his free hand through his hair, he really didn't want to choose the right one. He really, _really_ didn't want to. He wanted so much—so badly to choose the wrong choice. The choice that would make him a traitor—an ungrateful little shit that didn't care who fucked their lives up just to save him.

And he didn't want that. He had no way of doing anything that would even come close to amounting to what Fai went through for him. Letting his brother keep Ashura was all that he could do. And now…now he couldn't even do that. But then, this wasn't just a matter of what he wanted either. If he didn't agree, Ashura might not become a Sacred.

Yuui closed his eyes. So now it wasn't just a matter of what he wanted and what he should do—now, it was actually a matter of _Ashura or Fai_.

This was fantastic. Really, it was. Why didn't the deities just part the clouds and strike him with a lighting bolt while they were at it? It'd be subtler than what they were doing to him now.

* * *

Watanuki shut the door behind him, and leaned against it in immense relief. As if he didn't already have enough on his plate, it seemed that this villa—after the photo spread—had turned into some sort of homosexual haunted house. He'd come out of his room in order to use the bathroom at the other end of the floor—the only one that wasn't in a bedroom that had a shower and a bathtub—since Doumeki was showering in theirs (and a naked Doumeki only equated to more unnecessary drama). But as soon as Watanuki had gotten close enough to the door to open it, he'd heard extremely…explicit speech and other audible…audio coming from inside.

From one of the two voices, Watanuki had hazarded an educated guess that Touya was having a little too much fun playing King and Servant with Yukito, and everything else, the goalie just shoved out of his mind and ran for the bathroom downstairs.

Or maybe Slave and Master would be more accurate, don't you think, W?

And somehow, as if to add insult to injury, when Watanuki had made to cross the dining room—that was the only way to reach the bathrooms near the patio—and maybe even take a look at the photos that were supposed to be on the table, he'd come face to face (hypothetically, speaking, as it wasn't their faces that faced the goalie) with the Maestro pounding into Subaru Sumeragi on the dining table, the photos scattered on the floor (along with their clothes) and some even being crushed between them and the wooden surface.

Which meant, Watanuki had surrendered and wheeled right around to use the bathroom at the other end of the villa—at this point, he thought it was incredibly dimwitted of him not to have taken the long way in the first place, because at least he got the exercise, and that was ten times better than having to see Seishiro Sakurazuka—

Oh God.

Watanuki had flicked on the lights to whatever room he was now in—he'd gotten a little lost after relieving himself—and he was apparently now in the kitchen. But he wasn't the only one. Yuuko Ichihara was sitting on the island, her legs propped up and her hair draped around and about her form like liquid. Oh. And she was wearing lingerie.

Why did it seem like everything always happened to _him_?

Yuuko smiled at him. "You should only be so lucky," she said. "There are some boys like you who never get to see a woman like me in clothes like this in their entire lifetimes."

"Lucky them," Watanuki muttered.

"No." Yuuko swung her legs off the island surface, and slid off. She crossed her arms—somehow, suspending her cleavage further—and leaned back against the cool marble. "Lucky you, darling. A boy your age should have his hormones all in a fuss after seeing me. Of course, there is one explanation why they wouldn't be." She tilted her head.

"I'm not gay," Watanuki said loudly. He wanted to head for the door, but for some reason—probably because politeness was inbred into his genes, or he didn't want to reject a lady or something like that crap—he couldn't move from where he stood. His eyes wouldn't move either. Although they did shift enough to canvass how short the silk and gauze skirt of Yuuko's barely-there negligee was.

Yuuko raised an eyebrow. "Really." It wasn't a question. It was a statement. She was mocking Watanuki. "Then it must've been a figment of my imagination—an absolutely vapid fantasy—that I had of you and darling Shizuka the other day almost doing the naughty near my swimming pool? It probably was—you know…the heat and all." She smiled.

Watanuki's mouth opened. "Why do you call him by his first name?"

Her smile widened. "Well, because I figured that although most call him by his last name—so do you. And I wouldn't want to intrude on that, now would I, love? Let's just leave it at that. It's a me thing." She took a step. "But…really, why is it so awful to consider the fact that you might be gay?"

Watanuki's mind went blank at the simple sight of Yuuko. Whereas elsewhere he would've been able to put up a solid brick of defense at this sort of inquiry, in her presence, he could do absolutely nothing at all. It was like trying to run against a hurricane. It was impossible. So he said the only thing he could put together. "It's unnatural."

Yuuko's other eyebrow went up. "It's unnatural to love someone?"

Watanuki's face contorted in concentration. "I don't…I don't know. I just…I already like someone—I might even love her. Doumeki…we argue…we fight…but he's on my team, and we've…we're friends, but…he still aggravates me to no end."

"And yet you were jealous when he began to go out with Yuui Fluorite." It was uncanny how she could simply state something, and it made it true—not that everything she said _was_ true (because he sure as hell wasn't jealous) but everything that came out of her mouth sounded like it could never be a lie.

"No!" Watanuki's eyes widened. "I'm not jealous of a—"

"A what?" Yuuko looked expectant. "Jealous of a what? Of a whore? Of a slut? Of someone with absolutely no morals, who simply sleeps with anyone who happens to come calling, be they man, woman, or even otherwise? Someone who takes advantage of how they were born? Someone who has everything? Someone who's beautiful? Someone who's—"

"Perfect!" Watanuki yelled. "Perfect." He forced his voice to quiet. "Yuui fucking Fluorite is fucking perfect. There. Happy?"

Yuuko smiled. A smile that shocked Watanuki—a sympathetic smile. A sincere smile. "How do you know he's perfect? How do you know he smiles inside as much as he does outside?" Yuuko took three more steps and touched his cheek. "You somehow know that an expressionless person like Doumeki has to have feelings inside…but you never expected that a _smiling_ person like Yuui Fluorite could have real feelings inside."

"I…" Watanuki closed his eyes. He opened them. "He's beautiful."

Yuuko kissed his lips, and her smile was no longer present. "When a person is truly beautiful—as beautiful as Yuui is—most of the time…they don't believe that they are."

* * *

Kamui sighed bracingly, opened his eyes, and opened the door. The lights were already off. He flicked them on. The sleeping form stirred and sat up slowly, blinking his eyes. Fuuma stared at him. "Kamui?" The athlete's eyes were wide—Kamui was right to believe that Fuuma couldn't possibly have been asleep at this hour. Not after what'd happened.

The writer had changed into dry clothes—by sneaking into Subaru's room, which was strangely empty—and sat in the living room for about an hour and a half doing nothing but thinking. He walked slowly, padding across the wooden floor with bare feet, toward Fuuma's bed. Fuuma's eyes followed him—the surprise hadn't yet left his face. Kamui stopped and stood beside the bed, facing him, and waiting.

Fuuma softened his expression when he realized what Kamui meant. The freshman slid to one side, and pushed down the sheets, allowing a space for Kamui to move in. Kamui glided onto the bed, moving up onto his knees. The athlete's eyes watched him intently—waiting to see what he'd do next. Kamui gave a small smile, and began unbuttoning his shirt. He let the material plop onto the bed and slip towards the floor. His hands moved toward his waistband, intending to undo—

Larger hands stopped his. Fuuma held him by his wrists, pulling Kamui toward him. The freshman caught Kamui's lips with his own—a short kiss, brief and clean. "Do you want to?" Fuuma said gently.

Kamui shut his eyes. He could feel hot liquid gathering at the fringe of his eyes. Holding his eyes closed that tightly seemed to make his head pound, and his chest hurt further. "Hey, hey." He heard Fuuma laugh softly, and warm fingers sweep away the preparing tears. "C'mon, don't do that. Didn't I say they're too nice to cover up?" Kamui opened his eyes, and Fuuma ducked down and looked up playfully at the writer. "Much better."

With that, Kamui felt he might actually—ridiculously, and stupidly—cry for real. Which Fuuma seemed to notice. The athlete looked like he was trying not to laugh again. "Look, you know how you'd kill Seishiro for Subaru? Well, I'm pretty sure that if Little Boy Blue found out I made you almost cry, I'd probably be packed nice and tightly in the ground." Fuuma traced the area around Kamui's eyes with his fingers, and then followed the same path with his lips.

"I'm sorry," the writer finally whispered.

Fuuma grinned. "Do mine ears deceive me? You must be dead tired—you're spouting things you'd usually rather stuff needles through your tongue than say." When Kamui only lowered his eyes, Fuuma's grin became that smile that he saved only for the writer. "Here." The athlete took the junior's hand and placed it against his chest—over Fuuma's heart. "Feel that? It's alive and kicking. So stop pulling shit like this and scaring me, all right? Really, Kamui Sumeragi _apologizing_ to me—I thought I'd die from pure shock."

Kamui hung his head until his bangs completely covered his eyes. Now he really would rather stick needles through his tongue than let Fuuma see his expression. Although his hand remained gently residing over Fuuma's heart. "You're awfully quiet now," Fuuma smiled. "You _must_ be tired." As if in response to that, Kamui slid back to the left pillow and slid down onto his back. His body jerked slightly ever few seconds from the hiccoughs.

Fuuma stayed sitting up. He stroked back the writer's hair until Kamui's eyes closed, and the slightly violent breathing eased into quiet, steady, baby breaths. The athlete leaned down and kissed the parted lips. He pulled the sheets up until they covered the writer just below the shoulders. "I can guarantee that it won't stop beating for a long time to come," he whispered, smiling that strange smile. "But with you around…I'm not sure if it's going to stay unharmed."

* * *

_A/N: Whew. This was a long one. And I had to type it within the span of two days and a few hours this morning. I would've had more time, but I had a birthday outing sort of thing to go to Friday night. I probably gained fifty pounds eating what we did that night. Anyhoo, I think I had too much fun looking up KamuixFuuma scenes in X/1999, which resulted in what you just read. This chapter was supposed to be all the couples doing stuff at night (thus the chapter title), but it ended up being mainly KamuixFuuma. I'll be sure to fix this next chapter. And, I'm starting to infuse X-Kamui and TRC-Kamui with each other, which wasn't supposed to happen either. But y'know, I figured that in my Secrets universe, TRC-Kamui is what everyone else gets and sees, and X-Kamui is only what Fuuma sees and gets. Pretty fair deal, right? ........0_0 Okay. _

_A long review would be nice. 0_0_

_(And did any X reader maybeperhapsbyanychance notice the little scene I (attempted to sneak) snuck in of Fuuma and Kamui? The part with the hand over Fuuma's chest?) .......0_0 Got it. _


	22. Learn

Chapter Twenty-One: Learn

Subaru gazed at Seishiro's sleeping form. The Maestro was usually the one who awoke, and left Subaru, but after last night's…lively activities, it wasn't anything to be amazed about that the conductor was still dead asleep—not that it was even ten in the morning yet. Subaru himself had suffered from at least fifteen paper cuts and a sore back. At least that was one lesson learned—a balsam wood table, and about eighty photographs on expensive photography paper did not equal good sex.

The trumpeter turned away from looking at the room, and closed the door. He turned and stared out at the ocean's horizon—even the hallways were open-faced. The sun had nearly risen up into the center of the sky. The villa was close enough to the markets—to the _pasar_—that they could hear the buzz of the natives going along their business.

It was only the other night that he'd witnessed his brother and Fuuma together. Not the unfortunate, unlucky _togetherness_ that Seishiro and he himself always seemed to partake in, but another sense of together. A much better kind. And Subaru had stayed long enough to watch Fuuma walk out, and he'd also stayed long enough to see his brother—his brother, who was always _control_ incarnate—almost break down in front of his eyes.

He could hazard a guess at what happened there that had resulted in what it did. Kamui didn't trust Fuuma because he'd seen Seishiro unravel Subaru. He'd watched it all play out like a movie before his very eyes, and he couldn't let go of what he'd seen. In a way, Subaru's own naïve expectations were what had so very nearly cost his brother something that Subaru himself would never have.

Because even though Kamui tried to make himself think otherwise, Subaru knew—knew well and deep in his heart—that Fuuma was not Seishiro. They had similarities—of course they would, they were brothers—but whereas Subaru was just another to Seishiro, Kamui was the only for Fuuma. And even there, Subaru also knew that someone like Kamui would pose so much more of an intrigue for Seishiro. Subaru was just another horn player. But Kamui…Kamui was _dark_, and _deep_, and _interesting_…and _complex_…Kamui transformed pieces of paper into sheets of his _soul_, and—

Subaru would be lying if he said that he wasn't just slightly sick of it. Although, he somewhat applauded Fuuma for being able to make his brother that confused. Kamui was always composed—never disoriented, even when they'd been thrown into the pool before dawn for a photo shoot. And now, Subaru smiled to himself as he walked down the silent hall, his brother was acting like an angsty preteen girl in love.

Oh yeah, S, like you're one to talk.

He knocked on the door, and stepped back to wait for an answer. Fuuma was the one that opened it—his hair ruffled with sleep, and his eyes blinking slightly in the morning sun. "Oh. Hey. Er…Kamui's still asleep. Do you wanna come in?"

Subaru brushed past Fuuma. The athlete closed the door and leaned against it, watching the trumpeter sit on the empty bed—Kamui's bed—and gaze at his unconscious twin. "He's in your bed," the junior said quietly. He smiled up at Fuuma. "And he's shirtless."

"Get your mind out of the gutter." Fuuma grinned. "Nothing happened." He crossed the room and sat down at the edge of the occupied bed, careful not to come in contact with Kamui's blanketed legs.

Subaru peered at Kamui's expression—the faded green eyes narrowed. "He was crying…wasn't he?" He looked at Fuuma intently, his eyebrows furrowed. "Was it you? Did you make him cry?"

Fuuma stroked back Kamui's hair, avoiding Subaru's gaze for the moment. As he leaned down to brush his lips across the writer's, his hand fitted itself into the slender hand that lay palm-up beside Kamui's head on the pillow. The athlete never once removed his eyes from Kamui's face as he said throatily, "Yeah. It was me." He glanced up at Subaru, and smiled apologetically. "But overlooking that, how's Seishiro?"

Subaru shifted his eyes toward his clasped hands. "He's your brother. Shouldn't I be asking you that?"

"Damned if I know," Fuuma replied in the same muted voice; he cast a careful watch over Kamui. The athlete smiled. "Sometimes I get lucky and I manage to plow through enough to understand him, but I've got a good feeling that you're the only one who really can."

Subaru shut his eyes lightly for brief moment, taking some sort of refuge in the darkness. It felt like he was trying to pull up blinds of steel when he finally lifted them, and looked with a heavy smile at Fuuma. "Is understanding him even possible?"

Fuuma raised his eyebrows and chuckled, gesturing with his eyes to Kamui. "Is understanding him possible?"

"He's a writer—it's different," Subaru argued, "No one can understand him. I'm his brother—his twin—and I have to fight tooth and nail sometimes to get through to him."

The freshman's grin broadened, as he touched the softly curling locks of dark hair near Kamui's ear. "I can—I have to struggle a bit here and there, but for the most part, I can speak his language better than I can speak mine." Subaru didn't know it was possible, but there was such a thing as a serious grin—and Fuuma had long since perfected it. "It just feels impossible. But it's possible."

Subaru gave a bracing smile, and nodded over to the bundle of blankets behind Fuuma—the same bundle that'd just uttered a soft sigh. Fuuma grinned and looked over his shoulder, scooting slightly to one side, as Kamui moved and stirred. The writer's eyes were dazed when he emerged, sitting up slowly. He blinked a few times, as though his eyelids were sticky and he couldn't get them to open for sure. His line of sight fell on Fuuma and he stopped blinking. "Fuck."

Fuuma captured Kamui's lips so quickly that Kamui's eyes didn't have time to close when the athlete drew back. "Subaru's here, too," he added, just moving his mouth to the side of Kamui's jaw.

Kamui turned to stare at his brother. "Double fuck."

Fuuma stood up, and with a tousle of Kamui's hair—which, no doubt, Subaru knew, annoyed his brother to hell and back—grinned, saying, "I'll give you two some time to talk, all right?" Subaru thought the athlete was simply going to head toward the showers, but Fuuma went out of the suite completely, which was questionable as the freshman was more or less naked—give or take the boxer shorts. And that was even more a questionable decision considering that all of the male population in the villa was either gay or bi.

Kamui curled his legs to his chest beneath the blanket and faced Subaru. The trumpeter couldn't help but smile. His brother really did have the unconscious mannerisms of a child more than he himself. At the moment, the writer looked precisely like a small boy who believed he'd done something far worse than the reality of it—because Subaru knew and remembered only so well how the world seemed so much smaller when one was younger.

"You know I'm not mad at you," Subaru said, smiling. "The only person who's disappointed is yourself. Besides, what right do I really have to stop you from being with him, just because his brother's somewhat of an asshole. You might have decided to reenact the Taming of the Shrew, but I haven't."

Kamui quietly stared at his blanketed knees for half a minute, and then looked around to Subaru. "Somewhat?"

"Well, I'm the Shrew, apparently," Subaru laughed, relieved that his brother wouldn't put up the angsty writer front—it was just too early for some things. "So I can at least belittle the status of the Maestro's level of asshole, at the least."

Kamui smiled finally. He ran his hands over his bare forearms and up to his shoulders. "I'm…terrified." He rested his chin on his gathered arms and closed his eyes. "He scares the shit out of me." A pause. "_I_ scare the shit out of me."

If you'd ever had a friend who was always the one in control of themselves in the group—always precise, and composed, and overexcited only when they wanted to be, and sad or mad or happy only according to their whim, never startled into an emotion by someone else's actions—and that companion, that acquaintance, started to lose control…it could be somewhat amusing.

Which, Subaru knew he shouldn't find it amusing that his brother was saying what he was, but it just was too…coincidental. Whenever Kamui had liked someone, it was always considered to be a _thing_. The entire situation was completely disregarded, and Subaru—and Yuui, and Fai—they never really paid any heed to what would become of Kamui's feelings because, well, Kamui's heart was always safe sound. It was the person's heart that was always endangered, and Subaru found himself making sure his brother didn't cause lasting emotional trauma, if anything. Because, really. Who _didn't_ love Kamui? He and Yuui were two of the same kind. They were _enchanting_. They were intriguing.

But now it was Kamui with the crush—it was Kamui who was scared out of his utter mind because he didn't have a right grip on his heart anymore. And because he couldn't find it in himself to want his heart to be returned. He _needed_ Fuuma to keep it. And keep it safe.

"Everyone else is going out," Subaru said finally. "You should come to breakfast."

"Is anyone staying?"

"Well, Fuuma's following you to the ends of the earth," the trumpeter listed casually. "Watanuki says he's feeling under the weather—although, I doubt it's really that. And Fai doesn't feel like going, either."

"Where're you going anyway?" Kamui swung his legs from beneath the sheets, and began to move for the day. He stretched his arms up into the air, arching his back and trying to gather enough oxygen for a yawn.

Subaru stood up. "Some temple. And then we'll probably just drive around."

"Oh." Kamui glanced around. "D'you see my shirt anywhere?"

"Jesus. Didn't know you were that kinky."

Kamui threw a pillow at his brother. "Shut up. Nothing happened. Really." He straightened up and went to sit on his own bed, beside Subaru. Their heads leaned in toward one another, side by side, the silky—almost flimsy—dark hair meshing together. "I like him."

"I know."

"It hurts sometimes."

"I know." Subaru hid his smile.

"What if I love him?"

"Then you do."

Kamui looked at his twin. "Is there anyway to stop it?"

"None at all." Subaru sighed. "Or at least, none that I know of."

* * *

Watanuki leaned against the wooden railing, overlooking the families and couples playing on the beach—beneath the sun and sky. He could see the minor roads leading to and from the series of villas and resorts surrounding the ocean. There were palm trees bordering the sidewalks and boardwalks and outdoor markets. Bali really was everything you'd ever think an exotic getaway should be.

He didn't quite know why, but for some reason Yuuko insisted that he get some rest and relaxation at the villa, and that he might take advantage of the absence of most of the others. Although, he had no idea at all why she thought that the company of Fai Fluorite, Fuuma Sakurazuka, and Kamui Sumeragi would provide the best…quiet time for him. Aside from Fuuma, he really didn't know these people at all. Well, he knew them in the same way you might know the President or a washed-out celebrity. To Watanuki, Fai and Kamui were just names and faces. It was a bit surreal to actually think about the fact that he could speak to them—that they were concrete people.

Nevertheless, still extremely weird.

"It's nice, isn't it?"

Watanuki whirled around. "Oh," he breathed.

He'd always heard that Fai's ability to somehow appear out of thin air was even more superb compared to Yuui's, but this was just a little too…freaky. Fai was wearing what'd now become known as his usual attire—jeans and a t-shirt. It never struck Watanuki before how modest Fai was compared to his brother, who'd seemed to make it his life goal to wear as little as possible without getting hauled over my security for inappropriate public display. Along with Subaru, and Kamui, Doumeki and Fuuma, Seishiro and Mioru and Ashura…nearly all the rest of the male population—and maybe even Amaterasu and Tomoyo as well, and certainly Yuuko—seemed to love showing skin. Everywhere, and anywhere, wherever the opportunity was present.

Except Watanuki, and apparently Fai. Watanuki simply knew that he wasn't high enough on the ladder to pull off that much skin and not be taken as a sort of poser, but Fai? Why didn't he? He never swam either…always refused in an airy laugh whenever someone asked him…but again, Watanuki never really thought about it.

Fai smiled and assumed the same position Watanuki stood in against the rail. "It's pretty bright today—brighter than usual, I've noticed. Normally, there're clouds in the morning, and it gets sunnier in the afternoon. But today, it's just all sun right away."

"Yeah." Watanuki couldn't find anything else to say. He didn't think "star struck" was even a real condition, but now…he knew that it was. It was a strange feeling—almost indescribable—but it was extremely real, and not too comfortable. He wanted to say something, to be able to talk normally with Fai, but somehow, he just couldn't think of anything intelligent to say.

Fai seemed to take stock of Watanuki's expression. He laughed. "Yuui's told me a lot about you."

"I bet he just loves me, doesn't he?" the goalie said sarcastically.

"He doesn't hate you." Fai leaned his cheek against his shoulder. His eyes slid toward Watanuki. "Yuui's…complicated—but then again, who isn't? It's just…I think you might already know why Yuui's like that to you. It isn't that he doesn't like you…but more that he's…defending someone. I know…" Fai closed his eyes, and when he reopened them, his expression was defeated. "I know that sometimes it seems like the world's against you…but usually, when it feels like everyone hates you, it's you that's doing something wrong, and your pride's just not letting you realize it."

"Doumeki." Watanuki kept his eyes straight ahead. He could feel Fai's body warmth so clearly beside him. But he didn't dare look again at Fai's expression. "Did…did he tell Yuui about…?"

"I assume so. Since Yuui told me." Fai's tone was casual—Watanuki would even go so far as to wager that the violinist was smiling. He felt a rustle of air, as Fai switched around so that his back was up against the wooden rail, and his elbows rested on the surface. "Do you really hate gays?"

Watanuki blinked at the sun, watching the light glare on his glasses. "I don't have anything against them. I don't hate them—I don't even dislike them. There are certain…boundaries—say, I wouldn't want to have to screen them having sex every time I go downstairs at night"—Fai laughed—"but it doesn't bother me."

"I get it," Fai said easily. "You just wouldn't want the same for yourself—you can't imagine yourself in that position, because even though it doesn't bother you, you yourself can't comprehend why anyone would want to do so. Right?"

"Something like that. Yeah." Watanuki pushed up his glasses.

"And…" Fai turned to face the athlete completely, blue eyes serenely studying. "What if…perhaps…you find out that you might like Doumeki? As more than a friend, I mean."

Watanuki angled his face away. "I don't. I know myself. I don't."

"You won't even consider it?" Fai asked gently. Watanuki winced. It was that voice. The voice that the Fluorite twins were famous for—the voice so soft, and sweet, and alluring and a voice that called to you so strongly that it was like trying to ignore a siren's singing. It was impossible. It was the voice that you had to please—that you _needed_ to.

"I don't know why he'd want me," Watanuki said stoically. He faced Fai evenly. "He has your brother—your brother's beautiful. He's perfect. After him…why go back down?"

Fai tipped his head back and smiled at the sky, although his eyes remained firm on Watanuki. The musician slowly parted his lips and whistled a single clear, high, piercing note—letting it penetrate the air. He removed his eyes from the athlete, and placed them to the sky, regarding the heavens. "My brother's beautiful. I'm beautiful. But neither of us is perfect. No one's perfect. Most of us seem perfect, but none of us is. None. At. All." He glanced back to Watanuki, and raised his eyebrows. "But don't underestimate yourself. You've got something Yuui doesn't—and certainly something I don't."

"What…?" Watanuki's eyes narrowed.

"Well," Fai straightened, and his smile faded. "When and if Doumeki finally manages to capture your heart, he won't have to go to the trouble of first putting the pieces back together."

* * *

If Watanuki was disturbed after that, then he focused on not showing it any further than his own self. He more or less had edged away from Fai and walked back downstairs, hoping to have some quiet time to gather his mind and gain some sense of peace. After all, he didn't have to worry about the horny homos going at it for the day. And even better still, he didn't have to worry about Yuuko appearing in five random places in succession.

He reached the foot of one of the three staircases that lead to the kitchen, only to find someone already poking at the food that was served regularly by Yuuko's Indonesian chef, Ipnu.

Kamui was at the counter, near the stove, staring quite studiously at the neat mounds of white rice on the four separate plates, as if there was some lost secret art hidden beneath the snowy grains. Although, the writer also seemed to be seriously considering the fried doughy things and the greens surrounding each mini rice mountain. He glanced at Watanuki and his eyebrows went up. "Are you hungry? I was just looking to see if Yuuko was planning to poison us while everyone else is gone."

Watanuki smiled. "Does it look safe?"

"As far as I can tell." Kamui stepped to the side, letting the goalie come forward to inspect the food. For some reason, Watanuki had always felt the greatest sense of ease around the writer. The same went for Subaru. He didn't know what it quite was, but he could hazard a guess that it was the enormous, childish eyes. When you thought of a child, you always thought _safe and harmless and helpless and soft and kind and gentle_.

Watanuki walked slowly, his mind not very close to the food, but nearer to Kamui. One hand rested on the counter, and he leaned back and looked on while Kamui picked up the notebook on the island and retracted the open pen, placing it atop the lined paper. "You were writing?" he asked.

Kamui raised his eyebrows. "Kind of." He bent frontward slightly, twirling his pen around on the cold, slippery granite. A thin ribbon of white skin appeared, as the writer rested the weight of his body on the countertop. The junior's shorts, (now boys and girls, we're not talking short shorts—don't get your hormones in a tizzy—you know what shorts I mean. Those long cargo/denim ones that go on just before the calves and pretty much make any guy extremely shaggable) hung by a thread, clinging desperately on the slightest curve of his body. That, Watanuki thought, was just clear, concrete proof of the Slut of the Year award that everyone seemed to be trying to win.

Watanuki was just about to attempt one of the fried doughy things on his plate, when Kamui muttered, "Shit, here he comes." And apparently, that was some sort of prelude to Fuuma's usual swaggering entrance.

There were a number of things Watanuki had learned from his gay/bi teammates, and the most important of them all was just because they were both guys in a relationship, didn't mean that they couldn't be just as possessive as a guy could be over a girl. Two members of his team especially this applied to. The first one was obviously Mioru. And apparently, according to what was panning out before him, the second was Fuuma.

Fuuma caught Kamui around the waist before the junior could run for it, and more or less took a leaf from an eagle's page and swooped in for the hunt—opening his mouth against Kamui's lips.

Give or take a few feet, Watanuki's jaw collided with the floor. No. Really. It wasn't as if he'd never seen scenes like this play before him, but for some reason, as close as they were…with the directness of it all…and the fact that separately, Fuuma and Kamui were two extremely straight-seeming boys, was just a little too much to handle all at once. Plus, Fuuma followed this first act with the Possessive Boyfriend 2.0.

Fuuma's arm stayed welded around Kamui's waist, and his finger hooked through the belt loop of the writer's shorts. The athlete glanced up to Watanuki and grinned. "So, what were we talking about? Me, I hope?"

To say the least, Kamui looked pissed. "No. Actually, unlike you, Watanuki's capable of holding a decent conversation that doesn't center around himself and his conquests."

"Aw, c'mon, now," Fuuma lidded his eyes and smiled sultrily at Kamui, "I don't talk about myself all the time. And the only conquest I keep going on about is the one I've got hanging on my arm right now."

Watanuki's eyebrow went up.

Kamui scowled delicately. "Who's 'hanging'? I'm sure as hell not. All I see is some completely perverted hormonal bastard, who has his arm soldered shut around me and his fingers looking for a peep hole in." Well then. Watanuki blinked. He knew he should've expected it, but Kamui had quite the epitome of a sharp tongue.

But Fuuma just laughed, and spun Kamui around to face him, clearly oblivious to the fact that Watanuki was standing there, as a blatant onlooker. Although, the goalie really, really, _really_ rather that he wasn't.

Still…even though Watanuki couldn't quite brush away the feeling about how completely weird this was, it was…there was…the thing was…that…well…when he was watching it like this. When he was watching a scene like this—the way Kamui, even if he had called Fuuma out rather violently with the waist-holding and sudden making-out and so on, Watanuki noticed that Kamui never actually resisted the kiss. Neither did Kamui pull away or struggle against Fuuma.

And the way Fuuma's eyes caressed, canvassed, the way his eyes _cradled_ Kamui, Watanuki knew that you'd have to be blind, deaf, and mentally impaired to not know that only a power as great or greater than fate would be able to cause his teammate to hurt Kamui intentionally—and maybe even unintentionally.

Watanuki also knew that he'd be lying if he said and told himself that as of late, he'd seen a straight couple of the same age at their quartet high schools that exuded what Fuuma and Kamui did. All the boys were still talking on banging the girls, and from what Himawari told Watanuki, all the girls were still squealing over what ways to impress the guys. Sure, there were rarities here and there, where there were bonds formed that lasted past the first few hot moments where it was just physical and nothing more. But all the same…Watanuki had a feeling that it had absolutely nothing at all to do with whether you were gay, bi, or straight. Maybe…maybe love was love.

Kamui's glare on Fuuma was now strong enough to burn a hole with a twelve feet diameter through the wall behind Watanuki. "Do you _enjoy_ torturing me?" the writer managed to breathe out before the forward's lips zeroed in for further ah, "torture".

Fuuma winked toward Watanuki, and grinned predatorily at Kamui. "It's better than knitting."

Watanuki laughed quietly to himself, and went into the living room. He wasn't without sympathy toward Kamui, but he had a feeling that the writer was in good hands, and that he'd best leave them before things got…explicit.

Oh, come now, W. Like you wouldn't watch them and love it.

* * *

_A/N: Oh, by the way, during my trip to Williamsburg (as in the place Rule happens in, but for more info on that go to my profile, I updated something about Rule, if you haven't already heard/guessed), I learned that I'd made yet another grievious researching error. If you haven't already spotted my mistake in my description and terminology confliction, what Kamui smokes is marijuana, and I thought that that's weed. And I thought that pot is just another "name" for it. But apparently, weed is tobacco, and pot is marijuana. So...yeah. So again, Kamui does pot, not weed. Sorry for that. But that leads to my explanation (excuse) why I didn't have my usually/weekly/normally weekend chapter up (which is usually when I do big posting). First, because of a teacher's diocesan meeting, we had Friday the Thirteenth off. And even though I could've gone to numerous movie dates and mall dates with friends, I had to go to Williamsburg with my family, and also this lodge place with a waterpark. Waterpark was awesome. We went to Jamestown instead of the actual Williamsburg, and that was slightly less awesome since it was drizzling and cold (waterpark was indoors with much heating) and some historical artifacts scared me. One of which was an extremely real-looking bear skin. Anyhow. We got back Saturday evening, so you might ask, why didn't I write then? Well, I got back just in time to go to my friend's surprise birthday party which lasted until very late, and it was all very entertaining, although I had to leave just as they brought out the helium and amped up the Dare or Dur. _

_But, the chapter's up and everyone can clap again (including me). And remember! No torches or pitchforks due to the pot/weed error. 0_0_

_Oh, and in Impulse, I'm not going to continue the Subaru/Seishiro arc right away. I'll let you all pull your hair out a bit more, while I give you a rather...interesting "first time" of someone's. It's almost finished, and the chapter title is "Double K". Guess who :D_


	23. Blank

Chapter Twenty-Two: Blank

Mioru was out. The only ones in the villa were Watanuki, Doumeki, Ashura, and Yuui himself. Yuui knew that he wouldn't be able to walk afterward. It was already eight at night, and the others would be back in three hours. The pianist had texted already Ashura. He didn't think he'd handle speaking and hearing the artist's voice—it'd just make what he was about to do harder than it already was.

Yuui had showered. He'd dried himself. He'd sat on the bed. And now, all he had to do was wait. He hadn't touched pillows or the blankets. He'd just curled his legs to his chest and sat, staring straight ahead, clearing his mind of everything. He didn't even want to remember what his name was or what time it was. He just wanted to be blank…just a body.

A knock. Yuui looked up, took a deep breath, and said, "It's open."

Ashura pushed the door aside, and closed it quietly, clicking the lock on. He was still wearing clothes from this afternoon, and in his hand was a small, leather suitcase—sort of like a laptop case, but thicker. He didn't look at Yuui, nor did he talk, while he set the case on a glass table, and began to set up.

The tripod. The camera. The DVD. The remote. Ashura beeped the camera on, and Yuui could hear the quiet hum of it beginning to roll. "I'm not allowed to edit it," Ashura said softly, finally looking at Yuui and walking towards the bed.

Yuui's eyes burned. His face burned. His head was felt like it was being squeezed between flaming irons. But the rest of him was freezing. His entire body was ice cold. He didn't even feel his fingertips. He didn't want to feel his body. Looking into Ashura's eyes was unbearable. Suffocating. Worse, Yuui didn't want to think about the aftermath. He wouldn't be able to go through with this if he did. He wouldn't bring himself to do that.

Ashura sat down at the edge of the bed, his bare feet still firmly on the wooden floor. Yuui brought his eyes up heavily. He reached out and slowly—slowly, so slowly—held a thin lock of Ashura's long black hair. He glided his fingers over the strands until he reached the end, letting the hair fall back into place. "You can pretend I'm Doumeki," Ashura murmured.

Yuui would've given anything. Anything. Anything in the world, just to be able to scream at Ashura about how he didn't want Doumeki. He didn't want anyone. He just wanted Ashura. He wanted him so badly that it hurt. It hurt every time he saw the artist in the halls of Fuki. It hurt every time Ashura came over to be with Fai. It hurt now, and it would hurt worse afterward, but Yuui didn't mind, because it was for Ashura. It just hurt. Too much.

But Yuui had to play his part. For Fai. And for Ashura. "Then pretend I'm Fai," Yuui whispered, smiling—the action had the potential to be compared to placing his head into an oven. "It's just sex. You'll be a Sacred by the end of the night."

"Just sex," Ashura repeated in barely more than a whisper himself. He smiled, returning the same amount of gentleness that Yuui had suggested in his own smile. But it hurt. It hurt looking at that expression on the artist's face. Everything was hurting. And it was _hard_. Yuui still _desired_ Ashura. It hurt in too many different ways.

Ashura crossed his arms down and rolled his shirt off of his body and over his head. Yuui watched, entranced. It was all that he'd ever imagined, and worse. And more. And so much more. But so awful—horrible. Frightening. He ran his tongue over his lips, and lightly led his palm over Ashura's chest…stomach…shoulders. Ashura stopped Yuui's hand with his own, and brought it to his lips. "It's infrared," he said into the skin.

Yuui reached his free hand over and flicked off the light—the only light that'd been remaining in the room. Pitch black flew in to the suite. Yuui could only see Ashura's blurred, distorted outline. But that was fine. That was perfect. That was so much better. It didn't hurt any less, but he wouldn't have to see Ashura. He would just feel him.

He felt Ashura's lips touch his. Ashura's tongue entered his mouth. Ashura's mouth drew away. Touched his throat. Led down to his collarbone. Traced a path to his chest. Down his stomach. Hands guided up his thighs. His hands gripped Ashura's hair. Ashura's tongue touched his length. Yuui's voice sighed. His body jolted—arched. He said Ashura's name. His body relaxed. His breathing rushed.

His fingers struggled. Found Ashura's waistband. Undid it. Pushed the clothing down and away. It hit the ground. He heard Ashura rustling around. Kissing him. Feeling blindly over another's bodies. Feeling blindly for lubricant—for a condom. Found it. Ashura's fingers in his hair. Ashura's lips touching the saltwater on Yuui's face.

"Hurts?" Ashura breathed.

What would Yuui give to be able to tell the artist that if he'd belonged to the musician, no matter how much pain, it wouldn't have made him cry? What would Yuui give to be able to tell that the only reason he'd every cry was--?

Yuui would give anything. Anything.

Except Fai.

Yuui shook his head. Closed his eyes. Smiled sadly. Ashura moved. Slowly first, and then faster. But when it was fast, extremely fast, and hot—much too hot—and Yuui thought that the moment when Ashura climaxed, it'd be the absolute low for Yuui, because Ashura would surely call out his brother's name—

Ashura called for Yuui. Gasped it. Breathed it. Sighed it.

Why?

Yuui didn't want to know. It hurt too much as it was. Any more…any more and…Yuui refused to think any further. It was…impossible—nothing could hurt this much, and he doubted anything ever would. He'd so much rather take what Fai took every day and night than this. This should belong to Fai—not Yuui.

Ashura was already standing. He was taking the tripod down, retrieving the DVD, placing into a case, and shutting down the camera. His eyes were aiming everywhere but Yuui's face. "Thank you," was all he said, once he'd finished putting his clothes on, and cleaning himself. It was said like you'd say the phrase to a waiter.

As Ashura unlocked the door, turned on the lights, and made to head out the doorway, Yuui ignored the throbbing, piercing, wild pan and asked, "Did you enjoy it?"

He watched Ashura's head bow a little—just slightly…and—

"No."

The door shut.

* * *

_A/N: I know it's super short, but this just couldn't be clumped together with anything else. And you can thank_ Sum-it-up and you get Youhki _for the quick update, since she/he suggested to be Celebrity Status by Marianas Trench, will lead me to their other amazing songs, such as Cross My Heart, which is where this sort of style spanned from. Although, this chapter came to me from the acoustic version, since it gives the song a whole new more serious, sad meaning. _


	24. Out

Chapter Twenty-Three: Out

Mioru was checking the updates from back home, while simultaneously walking back to the suite, when an unknown text popped up at him. He clicked the "Read it now" button, and rummaged in his jeans for the card key. The text source and number were intricately covered, so that Mioru couldn't see a single loophole that he could trace it with. His eyes scanned the screen, and his eyebrows went up.

_Ashura Ou has completed his Task._

_Welcome to the Trinity, A._

"Wonder who _he_ had to sleep with," Mioru muttered to himself. He opened the door and stuck both his phone and his card into his pockets. The captain looked up—the lights were oddly still on. He closed the door behind him and said casually, "You look like crap, you know."

Yuui was curled into a ball atop all the covers and sheets, wearing pajamas that seemed would fit someone four times his height and width. The clothing utterly enveloped him, swallowed him up. His eyes were rimmed and veined with red, and his hair was damp on his head. More or less, Mioru thought that he'd have looked better if a bear had spit him out. "Thanks."

Mioru sat down on his bed, but stayed facing the pianist. His gold-flecked eyes traveled down and saw that Yuui's sleeve was wrapped around something. The neck of a bottle. A bottle of what read to be pure scotch. The liquid was more than halfway gone. "Where'd you get it?"

"Nicked it from the kitchen." Yuui brought the bottle to his lips. He closed his eyes as he swallowed, and opened them after taking a shuddery, shivering breath. "Do you have a smoke on you?"

"Even if I did, like hell I'd give it to you," Mioru said warily. "You look like shit as it is."

Yuui stared at him, and snorted into a smile. He took another swig from the bottle and placed it, with a loud thunk, on the table between their beds. His eyes surveyed the air ahead of him, and his fingers tightened noticeably around his legs—the knuckles whitened. "Did you get the text? About Ashura?"

"Everyone did, didn't they?" Mioru rolled his eyes, and collapsed onto his back on the bed, his head pillowed in his arms' nest. "Apparently, no one knows the meaning of a secret around here anymore. It's that stupid bWitch. She tells fucking everyone everything about everybody. Got no respect."

Yuui didn't say anything.

"But hey," Mioru's eyes flickered at the musician. "Seriously, are you okay?"

The musician sighed softly, and his eyes shut—the way a person in agony would slam their eyes closed to think away the pain they were going through. The way a baby scrunched their small eyes closed when they cried for a need. The way a person who was about to cry and sob closed their eyes. Yuui's face contorted for the briefest second. But in another blink, the junior's face was impassive—very near a smile. He looked to Mioru. "Mioru…are you with someone?"

Mioru was really scared now. Wary, for the most part. He knew things—and one of the things he knew because it was general knowledge, was that Yuui Fluorite was somewhat psychotic, and you'd have an equal chance of fucking him as you did getting murdered by him. "Yeah…" Mioru shrugged, scowling and shaking his head. "Well…I was, anyway. I screwed him around a bit, and he screwed me back, so now we're just screwed. But…I didn't…I thought he'd understand…"

He didn't want to think about Kurogane. Mioru didn't ever want to believe that they'd ever be over. Because they just couldn't be. They'd only just begun, and Kurogane was a person who you found only once every century. There was no one else like him. He was just…Mioru needed him. Kurogane was different—he was special. Mioru _knew_ he was. That was why Kurogane couldn't stay mad at him like this. He just _couldn't_.

If only there was some way. Some way to tell Kurogane everything—to let him know that Mioru didn't even like the Maestro; the Maestro was a manipulative bastard, who fucked at _least _four (different) people a week, and each of those people at least twice in that same time span. Everyone knew that. Even the Maestro's stubborn little boy toy.

So how—here was the thing Mioru couldn't comprehend—how the hell could Kurogane's mind even conjure up the single doubt that Mioru would leave him, or cheat on him, because he wasn't satisfied? Mioru knew that any person Kurogane chose was fucking damn lucky. Lucky as shit. Kurogane didn't choose easily, and he discriminated like crap. And Mioru had blown it.

"You'll call him?" Yuui said softly, smiling at his knees. "And apologize. Until he forgives you. All right?"

Mioru kept silent, wisely. Waiting.

"But," Yuui got off his bed and stood in front of Mioru's. "Before you do." The musician was smiling like a child who'd just found out the tooth fairy had left money under his pillow. But the tears were coming down his face like twin water falls. "Could you cheat on him one more time? Please?" His voice broke.

Mioru held completely still as Yuui knelt down on the bed and kissed him. Desperately. The athlete was scared out of his fucking mind, even as he undressed first Yuui, and then himself. Even as he elicited sighs and moans, and sighed and moaned himself, he was still fucking scared shitless. And throughout all of that sex—all night long—he made one thing clear to himself:

He'd never fuck Yuui Fluorite again. It was just too damn scary.

No matter how fucking amazing it was.

* * *

Doumeki really, really thought that Fate wasn't all too happy with him. He didn't know why Fate wasn't happy with him, but he knew that it was overall extremely pissed at something he'd done, or something he'd failed to do, and was now giving him ample comeuppance in the form of bespectacled, dark-haired boy, sitting in worn out loose flannel pants and t-shirt on the bed beside his own, reading a book.

Watanuki hadn't spoken to him since the day where they'd accidentally fell into the water and accidentally began making-out—quite passionately, too. By accident, that is.

Still. He wasn't sure if Watanuki wasn't speaking to him because he hadn't spoken, or if Watanuki wasn't speaking to him because he was still too angry to acknowledge the fact that Doumeki was even alive. After all, Doumeki never really had any actual concrete proof that Watanuki was gay or bi, and therefore, never should've expected him to magically turn so and fall into the forward's awaiting arms.

But after even only a few days being in the same room and having some mutual non-speaking agreement between them, it was already extremely awkward, not to mention that if this carried on any longer, Doumeki would bust a vein, and Watanuki's glasses. At the same time.

"Are you going to sleep soon?"

Doumeki's eyes widened. Maybe Fate had decided to finally like him again. Watanuki had turned his head in Doumeki's direction, the goalie's eyes serious—almost stern. "I still want to finish a few more chapters," he held up the book, "So if you wouldn't mind, I need to keep the light on."

No response. Just more avid staring.

Watanuki's face slowly bent into a scowl. "Are you deaf?" his voice rose, and Doumeki felt his inner mind smile—it was almost safe normalcy again. "It'd be nice if you answered," Watanuki hissed. "Well, all right. Fine then," he continued when Doumeki simply turned back to staring straight ahead, and sitting motionless on his bed. "I'll just keep the lights on all night, and hope you don't get an ounce of sleep."

"Fine with me," Doumeki said tonelessly, picking up the remote and clicking on the TV. He searched for a channel that either had subtitles or was in Japanese. Which was a bit hard. Besides, Indonesian television was immensely strange.

Watanuki tossed his head irately, glaring back at his book. "Shut up."

Doumeki, had this been in any other circumstances, would've felt extremely lucky that Fate had let things gone on this well for this long, and progressed this far. Normally, their banter only went on for a few seconds, and ended with Watanuki finding some way to locate himself in a place at least half a mile away from Doumeki. But Watanuki remained on his bed, reading.

At least, the last time Doumeki had checked the goalie was reading. But Doumeki's eyes only darted for a minute to the TV to watch the weathercaster report the possibilities of a storm rising up on the coast, and when he looked back Watanuki was standing at his bedside, scowling rather embarrassedly.

"What?" Doumeki's eyebrows lowered as Watanuki slipped off his glasses and placed them on the side table, near the lamp. The goalie's expression clearer than ever said, "Here goes nothing".

And promptly proceeded to jump Doumeki on the bed. The minute Watanuki had landed on top of the forward, the goalie's lips stole Doumeki's own. If Doumeki didn't have Fate's comeuppance on top of him, frenching him, then he'd probably have been more surprised. But, alas, the frenching was much too nice for Doumeki to really register how unexpected the whole thing was.

Much, much too nice.

Now, Watanuki's hands began to work—hands and mouth. In Doumeki's hair, Watanuki's fingers tangled. On Doumeki's throat, Watanuki's tongue danced. To Doumeki's lips, Watanuki's mouth always returned. Beneath Doumeki's shirt, Watanuki's hands glided.

With a sharp slip, Doumeki rolled and landed Watanuki underneath him, clasping the goalie's hands against the pillow to halt all movement. Watanuki's eyes—it was so odd to see him without the glasses—were steady, watching for Doumeki's next move carefully. It was clear that he hadn't just assaulted Doumeki from pure impulse—Watanuki had obviously thought heavily about it. And his decision was firm. Unwavering.

Doumeki caved his shoulders and arched his neck to kiss Watanuki precisely—a gauging kiss. He waited for a change of expression, waited for the other to talk—he just waited. Watanuki's face remained the same; except for the miniscule half-smile that appeared. "What do you want me to say?"

"Something."

"Awfully vague."

"Why?" Doumeki himself decided to ask.

Watanuki sighed. "I don't know the answer to that yet. I will."

"Why'd you kiss me?"

"Because I'm bi, I suppose."

"Just because you're bi doesn't mean you have to kiss every guy out there. That didn't answer the question."

Watanuki shrugged—as best he could while being pinned to a bed. He frowned. "I told you that I don't have an answer yet. So of course I couldn't answer the question. But you told me to get back to you once I figured out what I am. And I did—I'm bi. You never said I had to figure out the rest just yet."

That was true. Doumeki stared down at Watanuki.

"Now get off," Watanuki said bluntly. "Before I punch you."

"Can we have sex?" Doumeki rolled off, and watched Watanuki return to his bed, and slip his glasses back on. The striker watched as the goalie slid his feet beneath the covers and pick his book up.

Watanuki adjusted his glasses and spared Doumeki a quick, slightly irritated glance. "Maybe. Once I finish my book."

And just as Doumeki had thought Fate was finished with its comeuppance for him, Fate simply had administered another dose of penance for the poor, forward. Only this time, it came in the form of a leather-bound paperback with fine print on the spine.

* * *

Seishiro smiled at his cell phone. So whatever it was, Ashura really had gone through with it? Brilliant. He'd been beginning to get worried as if Ashura hadn't completed his task and Karen found out, Seishiro would've had to prepare at least eleven different types of illegal and legal coercion methods in order to get the artist to fucking do it—at least three of the ways included Seishiro's own body and at least one of the Fluorite twins.

But that wasn't the point.

The point was moreover to the fact that Seishiro was in some seriously deep…ah…excrement. Immensely deep, really. He was looking forward more than ever to getting out of Indonesia and back to Japan. Back to the world they belonged in. This…this isolation was wrong for him in more than one way, but the way it was taxing for him most was that it was lulling him into a sense of security. He was the Maestro, and the fact that he didn't have to perform was making him soft. And it was forcing him to be monogamous, as he didn't have all too many choices in bed warmers.

But it wasn't just that. He was getting too used to this. Too used to being left alone, too used to being…himself, too used to performing for himself rather than others. Too used to Subaru beside him.

Just like how the trumpeter was right now—how Seishiro was sitting in on his bed, and Subaru was sitting on the ground, leaning against the conductor's legs, one hand resting on the Maestro's thigh, cheek against Seishiro's knee. Seishiro's own fingers were subconsciously stroking back Subaru's hair, sometimes just stopping their motion and just…remaining there, atop the junior's head.

It was too peaceful—it was scaring him. He was beginning to like it. Even worse.

Subaru yawned, and stood up, going around and climbing behind Seishiro into his bed. The Maestro felt the weight of the bed sink in slightly as Subaru lay down, his body warmth emanating closely toward the conductor, as he remained sitting. He didn't turn to look. He just felt back until he found the trumpeter's face, and pressed his fingers to the musician's hairline, fingering the strands absentmindedly. He felt Subaru's hand clasp his and felt the junior bring it to his lips.

Seishiro closed his eyes, and angled himself so he could look down at Subaru. The trumpeter's eyes were half closed sleepily, and he was holding Seishiro's hand to his body as a child would hold a teddy bear. "Don't leave." It came out so softly that it was almost mouthed rather than spoken.

The Maestro smiled painfully. "I won't." But in his mind, it had to be added, he himself had to add it—

_For now, at least. _

* * *

_A/N: You see why I needed to make Compelled now? Even though it looks like everything's starting to be solved, it's just getting more complicated. And from here on, it'll just keep getting on more complicated. But be prepared, the humorous hotness that made up most of Intrigue is going to be almost nonexistent in Compelled--well not almost nonexistent, there's still going to be some, but y'know, it'll just be a considerable amount more serious, and bWitch's comments are going to be more mysterious-y and more xxholic-Yuuko-y rather than suggestive and sexy. I should warn you now, the angst is approaching. Especially in Compelled. _

_I should also tell you about my poll. If you haven't already, you really need to vote, because that'll determine the future fate of the Secrets series. _


	25. The Great Escape

Chapter Twenty-Four: The Great Escape

To say the least, this was strange. Kamui stared out the window, stared at the scenery flying past them, as the car he was in—along with Fuuma, Watanuki, and Doumeki—sped by. For the first time, Yuuko had made sure that every one of her guests was carted off and sent out for the night. She hadn't told them where they were headed, just that their drivers knew the destination. And stranger still, she herself wasn't coming with them, which meant that they're drivers were all they translation methods they'd have.

She had given them instructions, though, to wear the clothes she'd brought them that morning—clothes light enough to keep them from melting, but strong enough for the slightly cold night breeze that came about when Indonesia went dark—and clothes that were easily identified as clubbing clothes.

Kamui had yet to have seen a club from all the sightseeing they'd done over the past two weeks. And considering it was Yuuko, he had his doubts. Or should it be, considering Yuuko, he didn't have any doubts? Well, either way. It was still mightily strange.

He could hear from behind them, Watanuki and Doumeki quietly arguing at each other—or mostly, Watanuki was the one hissing and sputtering, while Doumeki simply infuriated with one sentence ever ten minutes. Kamui leaned into Fuuma's side, the athlete's arm rested on the top of the connected seats.

There was no music, no unnatural sound save for the quiet hum of the car beneath them. The driver hadn't said a word to them besides from the customary "Selamat malam" at the beginning when he'd opened their doors.

"Where do you think we're headed?" Fuuma mused softly, leaning in until his mouth brushed against Kamui's hair.

"Knowing Yuuko, we could be headed anywhere."

Fuuma was silent a moment. "It's our last night here. Tomorrow…we go back."

The writer understood. "Yeah." He closed his eyes. "I know."

Fuuma grinned in the darkness—his eyes were illuminated only by the streetlights that leaked through the tinted windows. "I heard you have to take your SATs when we get back."

"Hell in disguise," Kamui said dismissively. "I can handle that much." Fuuma laughed. "All the same." The junior glanced up at the athlete's face. "Won't it be…weird? You know. Going back."

The freshman leaned his head back against the headrest. "I guess I kind of get what you mean. After two weeks trapped here, we'll have to be let out into the whole…into what we have to live in. It's been sort of nice, though. Pretending that what we left behind doesn't exist to us."

"Why else do you think I'm a writer?" Kamui said it on the edge of his voice, creeping immensely close to a whisper. "Every time you write, you're not in your world. You're on that paper, in that Word document, in that notebook, on those lines. You're in those words."

"That's pretty," Fuuma grinned. "The way you said that."

"Shut up."

* * *

Yuui rested his head on his brother's shoulder. They could hear Subaru and Seishiro's electrocuting silence from the row in front of them. He didn't exactly know why Fai chose to ride with him rather than the car that held Ashura, or why Ashura didn't want to ride with Fai, but Yuui's mind hurt too much to be able to comprehend that. He knew it wasn't what had happened last night that'd caused any of this—it couldn't have been. The tasks were kept that painfully classified.

But either way, it was better like this. Better not having to explain why he was upset, because that was how it was with twins—twins who really understood each other. It made no difference the cause of whenever one of them had an emotional train wreck—it was the fact that they'd had an emotional train wreck, and that was all that mattered.

Fai merely kept quiet, and stroked his twin's hair, keeping on a soft, soothing stream of conversation—about how they'd be leaving tomorrow, about where they might be headed, about the upcoming SATs, and so forth. Nothing painful, nothing too sharp and real.

Yuui had wanted and still wanted nothing more than to be able to close his eyes and sleep everything out with an early night—since they'd have to start the series of plane rides tomorrow, and he could never sleep on a plane—but Yuuko had insistently forced brand new sets of clothes upon them and shipped them off in Town cars to God-knows-where.

They'd been here for two weeks, and even though Yuui had had a supposedly ample amount of time to get over what'd happened with Ashura and the task, he still hadn't. The sound of Ashura's rushed breaths and sighs were still in his mind, and worse even, the steady clear voice that he'd used to tell Yuui that the sex had been absolutely nothing at all. Meant nothing. Felt nothing.

And then the humiliating aftermath, that in his inebriated, and train wreck state, he'd actually gone and more or less begged Mioru Aoi—his roommate—for sex. So now, all he'd done was given Mioru another A-lister to put beneath his belt—literally. Assuming Mioru hadn't yet done Kamui, Subaru, and definitely not Fai, the little prick was almost halfway through.

"Hey," Fai nudged him softly. "I think we're almost here—we seem to be slowing down."

"Mm." Yuui mulled in the darkness, letting the feeling of his brother's deft fingers brushing against his scalp, and pulling through his hair a last time before they had to move. The driver unlocked the doors, and got out, opening the first row for Subaru and Seishiro, and moving one of the seats forward to let the twins out.

Yuui let Fai go first, and then jumped out of the car nimbly after him.

* * *

A club. A huge club. Lighted, filled, booming, shaking, it was the sort of club that even socialites could only see in movies. The It Club. The Every Club. The club that should exist, but didn't. The club that every teenager should go at least once during their adolescent life to forget it all—forget everything except where they were. A club that could easily hold enough people to fill half a baseball arena.

Kamui looked around him. The parking lot was empty—their drivers had driven off, most likely to hang out on those platforms usually set aside for drivers (since they were so common in Indonesia) to wait until their charges had finished and needed to be driven again. There were only thirteen people at the center of the vast parking lot, facing the club, the lights glaring against their perfect faces.

They were athletes. They were musicians. They were artists. They were gay. They were bi. They were straight. They were in love. They were friends. They were siblings. They were classmates. They were freshman. They were sophomores. They were juniors. They were seniors. They were rich. They were young. They were beautiful. They were talented. They were enemies. They were acquaintances. They were lovers. They'd just met.

But here, in this country, they were all foreigners. Here, it didn't matter what they were. Because here, this night, all those two weeks, they were all the same. They'd been all the same. They were just teenagers. They were just people. They were just kids.

The exterior of the club was dark brick—dark rock. It was rough, like it'd been carved straight from the earth, hardened and then brought aboveground. Kamui took one step forward, and he felt everyone seeming to congregate around and behind him, slowly walking toward the club. As if something was pulling them along bit by bit. Some sort of harness.

Oddly…really oddly, there were no bouncers at the door. The door was open—open to anyone, in this regard. A tiny toddler could wander into the premises and no one would've noticed. But there was no one driving into the lot, no one entering the club except for them. Like it was an invitation-only party, and they were the last to show.

The interior of the club was as…unseen as the exterior—all the walls were constructed of rock, and had water streaming down them, running the perimeter of the club through stone canals that were embedded into the floor. Amazingly, there was some sort of effect that made it look like slim bottles of alcohol hung from the ceiling with invisible thread. The club was packed—there was no distinguishable dance floor or bar, the drinks were everywhere, and the dancing people where everywhere. Kamui could smell the drugs from a mile away, and the lights were so intense on his eyes, it didn't even give his head a chance for form a headache. The exact same went for the music—too loud to give him any room to notice that it was.

And then, they were all _in_.

They weren't them anymore. Kamui didn't see people, he didn't see Fuuma, or Fai, or Yuui or his brother. Or any of the others. He just saw colors. He saw music. He saw lights. He felt bodies. He tasted alcohol, and he smelled drugs. He heard music. He heard voices. He touched faces, arms, waists. There was heat, and there was ice. There was nothing but the air already in the club. It was tight, but it wasn't stifling. It was thick—intense. Intimate. Never suffocating.

It was a riot of confusion. It was so easy to lose himself. And that was all he did. That was all any of the others did. Lose themselves. That was all they wanted to do.

Because who you are has nothing to do with where you come from. Who you love, what you love to do, what you want to do, what you want to be, who you want to be—none of that has anything to do with who you're born as and where you're born at, and where you're from. Nothing at all. It's all to do with who you are. Who they are.

And I know that. Do you think that I only see what these kids do?

If the answer is yes, then you need to fuck off and extricate your cranium from the recesses of your derriere.

I see what these kids do—that's true. But I see more. I see how they feel when they do what they do. While they're doing it. Before they do it. After. I know who they are. I know when they try to hide it—I know that all of them try to hide it. And I know how to get them to stop.

If I take these kids out from their world—from what they think is their comfort zone, from the lies and secrets and sex that they're so used to, that they've been raised around, then they'll be able to see for themselves. Feel for themselves. Perform because they want to please themselves. And love for themselves.

Not for their parents. Not for their peers. Not for the social scene. Not even for their siblings. Or friends. Or lovers.

Just for them.

They think that it's a trap. They're supposed to. It's only natural. And I don't even know if they'll ever realize it for what it truly was to them. For what it'll always be to them, and what it did for all of them. But it wasn't a trap.

I took them out of the trap. And I let them escape.

I took Touya, and I took Yukito. Their loyalty to Sakura trapped them from loving each other. Their confusion trapped them. Their sense of pride, of protection, and self-sacrifice trapped them. They've escaped for now, but when they return to that trap, it'll be up to them whether to return to that suffocating pretend or let the truth free them, and Sakura.

I took Amaterasu, and I took Tomoyo. Their bonds of sisterhood were trapping them. It trapped Tomoyo with a sense of duty that she needed to live up to her sister—needed to outshine her, almost; needed to perform for her sister, rather than herself. It trapped Amaterasu with the obligation to have her sister as a part of her, rather than another person.

I took Mioru. His trap was one of the worst ones. He was trapped by his parents' mistakes—by his parents' blindness to the fact that they have a child, and that the greatest school, the most money, the most talent, the greatest nursemaid in the world cannot make-up for a parents' love. Cannot replace a parent. And that in turn, trapped him to Kurogane. Into needing someone who needed him—and hurting Kurogane as Mioru's parents had hurt he himself.

I took Kamui and Fuuma. Kamui was trapped by the terror of a writer's painfully accurate self-awareness and his brother's mistake. It's both a curse and a blessing to all true writers. Self-awareness so extreme, that you can look at yourself and your flaws and your gifts as though you were looking at another character. He knew he was in love with Fuuma. He was terrified to be. Even only through his compositions, he knew exactly how much it hurt to be in a position like Subaru's. Because of that, he trapped Fuuma. Fuuma was trapped—unable to move and tell Kamui how it hurt.

I took Watanuki and Doumeki. Watanuki was trapped by himself. By who he was, and whom he thought he was. Trapped by feelings so close to each other that they could be easily mistaken—strong friendship for Himawari was confused by love for Doumeki; and trapped by fear of the unknown, because humans are always frightened by what they can't explain and by what's different. And that trapped Doumeki. Trapped Doumeki with the knowledge that Watanuki might never realize whom he really loved, or that Watanuki couldn't ever love him at all.

I took Seishiro and Subaru. Seishiro's trap is one every adolescent hears of, thinks is too common, and dismisses it, but this trap is always deadlier than everyone assumes. Seishiro was trapped by his peers. He was the Maestro, the conductor—he was always in control of everyone, of everything, and of himself. He manipulated—he couldn't fall in love. He couldn't be with only one person. Even if he did fall in love, he wouldn't. He couldn't. So he pushed everyone away—fuck one night, out the door the next day. Occasionally, a fuck would be a friend—Yuui—but nothing more. Never more. Subaru's love trapped Seishiro. And then the trap snapped back at both of them.

I took Ashura. He was trapped by Fai's secret—by having a need to know what Fai was keeping from him, and why Yuui wouldn't tell either. Trapped by knowing that whatever it was, Fai needed him to stay. Trapped by that, it trapped him from even considering that he could be in love with Yuui. Trapped by the belief that it would be a betrayal of Fai.

I took Yuui. Because his trap was the same. He was trapped by the choice he knew he could never make for fear of making the wrong one whichever he chose—his own heart, or his brother's. Which? And he was trapped with the belief that he was unworthy of his brother's sacrifice and choice, and the guilt. The guilt of all those years ago, and the guilt that whatever he did, there was nothing he could do. Nothing.

And I took Fai. Because he was trapped in all possible sense of the word—emotionally, physically, and mentally. Kyle had trapped him physically, and from that, it caused Fai to trap himself mentally and emotionally. And all of that trapped Yuui and Ashura. Trapped, because Fai's mentality couldn't consider the fact that anyone could possess the capacity to love what he'd been taught to think he was—a whore and a shameless slut. Trapped, because Fai's emotions were desperately out of rein and out of control, and the selflessness that was built into him was spiraling into absurdity.

But it's only temporary. It's all I can give them. A temporary escape. All I can hope for is that once set back in to their traps…

That they'll escape for themselves.

* * *

Mioru, Watanuki thought in his inebriated state, had to be the biggest, shittiest, little prick he'd ever known in his entire life. Because even if that prick was the same age as Watanuki, he acted as though he were at least a decade younger, and with thrice the stupidity. And although he himself was drunk, none of it justified what that little shit just did, and was doing right now.

Right now, Watanuki had his hand fisted around some random, male stranger's shirt, and was focusing on kicking and knocking the living daylights out of whoever this guy was. Around him, Doumeki and Touya were handling five other guys, and he'd no clue where the others were. All he knew was that Mioru's one retaliation to a comment had set off this high-standing club into a pub brawl.

He could even hear and vaguely see Amaterasu and Tomoyo cat-fighting—throwing their heels and purses and yanking each other's hair, and pushing and shoving and ripping clothes—with at least twenty other girls. And the sisters were winning.

Clothes were being torn, shoes thrown, bottles of alcohol smashed, lights exploded, water spurted from the walls, belongings trashed, hair ripped, chairs and tables upended—everything was getting utterly destroyed, and Watanuki couldn't even remember why he should be upset that this was happening. He just did what his body told him to do—fight.

So far, he'd managed to avoid blows in the face—a dangerous area because of his glasses, although at least he had anti-shatter material—but took a decent amount in the stomach and shins. But then again, Watanuki was a goalie, and no matter how much padding you had, that ball was going to sting. Which meant he had the advantage, and the cursing and riling couldn't bother him, as he couldn't understand a word they'd said.

An arm brushed his back, and he felt someone sucking air in and preparing to hit him from the back—probably a comrade of the man he was currently banging out—but Watanuki couldn't turn fast enough. He heard the sharp, tight sound of the assaulter behind him being knocked out, and once he looked, his eyes widened, and then smiled as he saw Doumeki holding the limp body, and tossing it aside.

It wasn't until Watanuki had beaten at least five more, and evened out his score with Doumeki by taking out someone who was about to smash the forward's head with a scotch bottle, that someone—anyone—in the club, amidst the fist-fighting, yelled something in Indonesian, but one word that they'd know anywhere: Police. (Or well, polisi, but it was the same thing). Plus, there was the helpful addition of the sirens drawing closer—something that'd been unnoticeable until the suspended silence.

But the following Japanese was unmistakable—so was the voice. Seishiro had climbed onto one of the tables that was still standing, and motioned them toward him. He yelled voicelessly and pointed to the side of the club, even though the Indonesians were all running to the obvious backdoor choice.

Watanuki felt himself instinctively grab Doumeki's shirt, as they fought the tide of people and ran across the huge club—jumping over knocked furniture, pieces of glass, numerous shoes and clothes, and quite a few unconscious bodies. At the side, Seishiro wasn't ushering them through a door, but up a staircase.

Watanuki followed, noticing that even though all the others were going up the stairs without thought, Subaru remained by Seishiro's side as the Maestro got everyone up before he did. The goalie was extremely aware of the relief he felt in his chest that Doumeki was directly behind him. Touya was bounding up the stairs in front of Watanuki, and whoever was at the lead—it looked like Fuuma—pushed up at the ceiling once the stairs ended.

The ceiling was a flat door, and it led out—once you climbed over—onto the club's rooftop. There was no railing around the perimeter and Watanuki could see the police beginning to infiltrate the club, and numerous men, the ones that were still fighting, were being brought out and handcuffed—probably to be brought back to the station and inquired…maybe fined.

But some of the police who were still near their cars had begun to look up, and one of them seemed to spot that there were people on top of the club. At least, it looked like they did—a few pointed and began shouting, "Tu! Di atas!"

Once Seishiro and Subaru had closed the trap door, and were on the rooftop, Watanuki looked around. Everyone was up. Good. Now they just had to figure out a way to get down. "What the hell do we do now, Seishiro?" Yuui screamed through the sound of the shouts coming from below. They could feel the roof shaking beneath them.

Watanuki's eyes darted everywhere, as his companions began running and checking the rooftop for any means of escape. He happened to take sight of a long open pipe—wide enough for him to suspect that that was how the owners of the club had created the effect of the floating alcohol bottles. He went to the edge and looked down at how the pipe led. It pointed to the opposite direction of where the police were coming from. If someone strong enough punched the top of the pipe, then it would cave and bend like a slide.

"Hey!" he shouted, his lungs threatening to tear. "Push his pipe down! If you push it—"

Seishiro ran to Watanuki's side, looked once at the pipe and spun around, and Watanuki knew then exactly why he was the Maestro. "Doumeki," the conductor shouted, "Fuuma, Mioru, Watanuki, and Touya. Come here and push the pipe down forward—at an angle, and keep pushing until I say stop."

The athletes came forward to do as the Maestro ordered. They knelt in front of the pipe, took hold of the dangerously edged metal and began pushing, controlling, as best they could, the angle it would give out at.

When the pipe finally issued a loud creak, and none of the others—who were keeping watch—said that the police had noticed, Seishiro looked down and said, "Stop. All right, lightest first. Tomoyo, Amaterasu, go down. Just keep one hand on the side—not at the edge though, it's sharp—and one leg forward to steady yourself and break the landing."

The sisters started to come slowly, warily, until Seishiro began to yell. "The police are fucking coming, so you're fucking going to go down! Now hurry, fast!" He all but bellowed them to the pipe, and Tomoyo looked down with wide eyes, closed her eyes, and took the jump. She landed with a soft thump, far, far, far down below on the corrupted dirt. Amaterasu followed suit.

"Kamui, Subaru—next," Seishiro said, "And," he glared at Subaru, "No shit on waiting for me this time. Either you go or I'll fucking kill you." Subaru had to be practically dragged by his brother—who was eyeing Fuuma significantly all the while—eyes wide at Seishiro. Kamui ushered Subaru down first, and then slid down after him.

After that, Fai and Yuui went. Then Yukito, Watanuki, Mioru, Fuuma, Doumeki, Touya, Ashura—Seishiro was the last to reach ground. The second Seishiro's feet touched the earth, they could hear the door of the roof bust open, and the police scrambled to the edge of the pipe. "Run!" Seishiro said needlessly—they would've done it even if he hadn't said.

They didn't even know where to run, and when to stop. They just ran—the night seeping into their eyes, the wind blowing back their hair and caressing their faces, and their legs carrying them with a warm, flying speed. Watanuki could touch the breath in his lungs—it was that real.

Once the club's lights, the police cars' lights, and the lights of the city behind the club had subsided behind them, they simply slowed to a silent walk until they reached a common, every day outdoor food tent—that was how Watanuki had described it, anyway. It was more or less just tables and chairs and a mini restaurant set under an open tarp of some sort. This one was on the large side, and could hold all thirteen of them. But they didn't go in.

Instead, they sat, in the near pitch black darkness, on the ground outside of it, uncaring that the people who ran the mini restaurant were staring at them with a mixture of amusement saved for foreigners, and slight wariness at the state they were all in.

Watanuki looked around at his comrades. Beside him, Doumeki's hair was standing on end, his clothes were torn enough so that half his body could be seen through them, and his shoes were missing. On the goalie's other side, Mioru had a black eye, liquid dripping out of one side of his hair, and his clothes too were torn beyond recognition. Seishiro's face was bruised, blood was dripping from the corner of his lip, and although his pants seemed to have escaped much harm, his shirt looked like a ferocious beast had clawed it.

The Fluorite twins' hair was limp with sweat and smelled—even from the few feet away Watanuki sat—of strong whisky, and both of them had bruises on their necks and arms. Fai was missing his belt and a sleeve, and Yuui was missing his shirt completely. Both their pants were stained with who-knows-what. Their Sumeragi counterparts were more or less similarly destroyed, only Subaru was missing his pants rather than his shirt, and Kamui's clothes were just plain drenched with alcohol.

Both Daidoji sisters had their heels in one hand and their purses in the other. Amaterasu's dress had been ripped to above her thighs, and Tomoyo's had been tied around her waist to prevent tripping. Their hair was all over their faces, resembling black tangled nets, and their make-up was completely botched and strewn. Both were missing pieces from their necklaces, bracelets, and earrings.

Fuuma, Touya, Yukito, and Ashura all had similar wounds—bruises, bleeding lips, and a few dispersed black eyes—and their clothes were all either two of three: nearly nonexistent, ripped translucent, or missing sleeves and legs.

"You're some shit, Mioru," Amaterasu said quietly, her eyes sparking. She leaned over to glance to the left at the soccer captain. "If Tomoyo or I had broken our ankles or legs, or tripped on our dresses, do you think the police would've just deported us without giving us crap? We're not just anyone, you know. None of us are—and you sure aren't, either."

"Aw, shut up, bitch," Mioru said, leaning back on one of the tent poles. "That guy was giving me the evil eye, and sticking his girlfriend all in my face. I had to do something."

Amaterasu narrowed her eyes and proceeded to let Mioru know exactly what she thought of him at the moment using only three words, although Watanuki had to agree that they were an extremely accurate description of what he thought of Mioru at the moment, too.

It didn't take long before at first Touya joined in about how Mioru had nearly gotten Yukito encased beneath the bar shelf, and then Yukito was trying to quiet the athlete down; Mioru simply was his prick self and tossed the whole matter aside, and Yuui snapped at both Mioru and Touya, while Seishiro began questioning why Subaru would do something as stupid as waiting for him, and Kamui began defending his brother, and when Seishiro sniped back at the writer, Fuuma began defending him.

To say the least, the owners of the tent were beginning to look quite pissed off at them.

And then, Fai laughed. Fai was laughing. His head tossed back, mouth open, laughing. At everything. Watanuki stared. He wasn't alone. Everyone, all twelve others, stared at Fai—even Ashura and Tomoyo and Doumeki, who hadn't been arguing, stared at Fai. But Tomoyo and Ashura were the next ones to start laughing. Then Yukito. Then Yuui. Then Kamui, and Fuuma, and Subaru and Seishiro. Mioru and Amaterasu. Touya. Watanuki himself. And of course, Doumeki didn't laugh out _loud_, but it was in his eyes.

Laughing. Why were they laughing? None of them really knew. Maybe at the completely wrecked state they were all in. Maybe because they'd just been arguing at something pointlessly absurd. Maybe because even though they'd never admit it, that whole fight that'd just happened behind them was the most brilliant thing that'd ever happened to them.

Two weeks. Two weeks they'd all been here. Two weeks they'd been taken from their world—a world of secrets, of intrigue; where they were all learning the tricks of the trade in how to survive, how to deceive, and how to get what to the top by any means necessary. A world where being the best was more important than anything—than family, loyalty, friends or lovers.

Isolation. At first, at the beginning, it'd seemed like isolation. Like they'd been wound and led into a trap. But really, Watanuki looked round the group, and kept looking round until his eyes fell on Doumeki. The forward raised his eyebrows, and Watanuki grinned. He had a feeling that what they'd left behind, and what they'd be returning to had been the real trap.

And this? This was the great escape.

* * *

_A/N: Whew. That was a long one, but an epic one, I hope, because that was I was aiming for. And yes, this chapter and the title came to me from listening to The Great Escape by Boys Like Girls about a million times over. Because the song really fits GG and our Secrets gang so well and so perfectly. Just look at the lyrics lightly and it'll immediately click. And this is the second to last chapter of Intrigue, which means the next chapter will be the last. It might be kind of short, but I think by now most of you have figured out that this will be the type of story that ends at the climax. I don't know if there are enough hints, but some of you probably could guess what it'll be. If not....I dunno 0_0. _

_Oh, and the fight sequence in the club came to me from the Skins Series 3 trailer--if anyone cares or knows about that. _


	26. Intrigue

Chapter Twenty-Five: Intrigue

"Come in." Fai turned around, as the door opened. His brother pushed it to a close absentmindedly and went to sit across Fai on the opposing bed. Even after three showers in a row last night, and two more this morning, their hair still smelled like the brandy that'd been spilled on them when they'd teamed up to knock three men into the bartender shelf last night. Yuui's bruised lip had puffed up slightly, and Fai's own chafed shoulders and tender hip were still very sore.

Overlooking it all, last night was one they'd never forget—if anything. Yuuko had somehow known where they were and had sent the drivers to get them from the food tent, and had the drivers apologize on their behalf to the owners. Their plane would leave in five hours, which meant in an hour or so, they'd be driven to the airport.

All of their luggage had already been taken, and Fai was merely gathering the last of the things he wanted to bring in the sling bag he was aloud to bring on board the plane. Fai remained standing as he snapped his bag closed and looked to his twin. He smiled. "What?"

Yuui laughed. "Nothing. Just…you know, if you hadn't burst out laughing at complete random last night, none of us would probably be speaking to each other right now. Instead, even Mioru the Prick is actually being civil."

The violinist smiled again. "It wasn't that hard. I just thought it was all really funny—funny brilliant. We'd just gotten into the biggest trouble any of us had probably ever gotten in, and then escaped down an oversize pipe and ran at least a mile straight to the nearest middle-of-nowhere food stand. Most of us barefoot. And then after we escaped the foreign police and being deported, we're all still perfectly fine."

"You have a weird way of looking at things." Yuui snorted. But Fai's smile didn't move—he could easily hear the clear affection in his brother's voice. "Oh. One more thing."

"Yeah?"

Yuui went up and kissed Fai promptly, and then fell back down into a sitting position on the bed. "Thank you."

"For?" Fai turned his back to rearrange the straps of his bag, smiling quietly to himself. He untangled the larger strap, and elongated the skinnier one until they were relatively the same length.

Softly, Yuui said, "Last night."

Fai just smiled. "So. Now, we're all going back, huh?"

"I suppose we are." Yuui's smile faded. He looked down. Away from Fai. The violinist didn't sigh, but he wanted to. Every time. He knew what this meant. And he dreaded it—two whole weeks without Kyle. It was a life that they both wanted so much. It was a life they would have to wait for—a life they wouldn't get until they were out of college. And even then, who was to say Kyle wouldn't come round and find them for a "visit"?

"He'll have a lot waiting for me," Fai said quietly, still smiling. He knew his smile should be wiped clean from his face, but it was a habit. He knew that Yuui would want to slap him for still smiling, even though what they were talking about was the last thing anyone should smile for. "He always does after I'm gone a while. I wonder how many."

Yuui's pale eyebrows scowled—it was so very rare that Fai's brother ever scowled. But he knew it was possible, and he knew when it usually happened, and what they were talking about whenever it did. "I hate him. I hate him so much."

Fai said nothing. Then he said, "It happened again. With Ashura."

Yuui looked at him blankly. "Again?"

"Yeah." Fai closed his eyes. "He shouldn't be with me. I'm just hurting him. Again and again, and I can never not hurt him."

"Don't say that." Yuui's voice was hoarse—barely a whisper. "Don't. Why can't you just…you need to tell him. We need to tell him. We can't go on just like this—he needs to know, if you don't want to hurt him, then you at least owe—"

"Please." Fai looked up at his brother, pleading. "I can't. He'll leave. He can't leave. Not because of this. I don't care if he leaves because I hurt him, but he can't leave because of this. If I tell him, he'll leave. If I tell anyone who's with me, they'll leave. It's only fair for them that they do. Please, Yuui. Please don't."

Fai knew he was being unfair and ridiculous. Fai knew that he was hurting his brother and Ashura—he knew he was being selfish, and that if he continued, he might as well deserve everything Kyle was doing to him, but he couldn't have Ashura know. Ashura was the one person that absolutely could not know.

Yuui stood up and crossed the little space there was between the beds. He slung his arms carefully around his brother, and Fai buried his face in his twin's shoulder. "I won't. Sorry. He won't know. I won't tell, and you don't have to."

Outside of the room, Ashura removed his hand from the edge of the door, and his eyes and ears from the scene. He walked away.

* * *

That afternoon, the Indonesian police will return to the scene of the club fight for a report all over Bali's network about the violence that occurred the other night, only to find nothing but an empty lot of grass, surrounded by a shabby wooden fence. They'll look up the records of all the clubs in Bali--the most extensive search--and they won't find the club anywhere on the register. Nor any register in Indonesia or Southeast Asia. And when they look up the names of the Indonesian citizens involved, none of them will have any recollection of the incident. All of them will say that their wounds were sustained elsewhere during different situations.

But the police will remember the club's name:

Intrigue


End file.
